


The Wolf and the Stag

by jlovesallfandoms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: "What If", F/M, Prince Gendry, Princess Arya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:59:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 69,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlovesallfandoms/pseuds/jlovesallfandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have a son, you have a daughter. Let us join our houses."<br/>Arya Stark, the wild wolf lady of the North, was now promised to Gendry Baratheon, the heir to the Iron Throne, the eldest son of Cersei and Robert Baratheon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bear and the Maiden Fair

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so let's just pretend there's no such thing as The War of the Five Kings, and Gendry is the legitimate child of Cersei and Robert, and he's the heir of the throne. Okay? Okay, let's do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited 3/1/14   
> So I revisited this chapter to edit all the mistakes and to correct some mishaps...

As soon as the carriage arrived at King’s Landing, Arya Stark leaped out and stared with awe at the courtyard of the Red Keep. The weather in the South was much different than the North’s, as was everything else. Ned was slower to exit the carriage than Arya with his age. Behind him trailed Margaery Stark, Robb's pregnant wife.

Margaery insisted to travel with Ned's party to King’s Landing, wishing to “experience the beauty of the South” before her child was born. Robb agreed, letting his wife and their unborn child travel with his father and his sister to the Capital. Her engagement to Arya’s brother was a prosperous one, bringing luck and wealth to both House Tyrell and House Stark. Only having been married for five moons, Margaery was showered with praise for being with child from their wedding night. Margaery was nice enough, as she and Arya rarely spoke.  Sometimes, Arya believed Robb even loved his wife, despite their short time together. At least unlike Sansa she didn't make Arya try to become a Lady during her time in Winterfell, dressing her in queer apparel and do boring activities such as embroidering. However, Margaery found somewhat of a sisterhood with Sansa, becoming close in only the few moons they’d known each other, before Sansa was shipped to King’s Landing for her own engagement.

Catelyn and Sansa Stark filed out with a few other ladies of court to greet the party. Catelyn and Ned hugged each other as if they hadn't embraced in years rather than only six moon turns. Sansa smiled warmly to her little sister. Her warm auburn hair and Tully face had grown even more beautiful ever since the last they’d seen each other. She wore a pale pink Southern dress and her hair was put up into a birds nest like the rest of the ladies of court. Nonetheless, Sansa seemed genuinely happy to see the face of Arya, much to her dismay. Even Nymeria, Arya’s direwolf, eagerly greeted her own sister, Lady, who was nuzzling herself beside the hem of Sansa’s dress, despite being a full-grown wolf.

After small talk of how Winterfell fared and how Sansa and Catelyn liked the South, Arya snuck away from the courtyard, wanting to explore the Red Keep with her own eyes. Nymeria seemed to pick up on what she was doing, because the wolf followed Arya’s footsteps closely. Between conversations with Margaery, Sansa seemed to notice Arya slowly parting away from the courtyard. Rather than reprimanding her, she only gave her a faint and subtle smile before replying to Margaery. _Engagement has seemed to do well to Sansa,_ Arya thought to herself.

* * *

 Of course Arya has heard stories and tales and myths of the bones of the dragons under the Red Keep, and so of course Arya had to see for herself. Blending with the shadows, Arya snuck deeper into the dungeons, too swift and sneaky for the eyes of the guards. Nymeria padded close in front of her, as if the wolf was leading the way. After treading deep enough and weaving throughout the halls, the air of the underground started to become stale. Wrinkling up her nose, Arya coughed. The noise echoed and resonated throughout the empty dungeon, sending an eerie wave of uneasiness. Bravely remembering her resolve, she took a deep breath and strut forward. It wasn’t long until she stared with awe at the great dragon skulls. Her stomach dropped and her eyes widened. The dragon’s jaws were taller than Arya herself! Lit up by the torches lining the wall, the skulls seemed to glow and hum with whatever life still in it, as if the magic of the dragon never left this dungeon.

Just as quickly as Arya discovered the bones, Nymeria howled, warning her that an intruder was coming. Without conscious thought, Arya quickly hid beneath the dragon’s skull and hauled Nymeria next to her. She held her breath as the door to the hall opened, and Nymeria let out a low growl. Wanting to calm down her Direwolf, Arya stroked Nymeria’s grey fur. Hearing her wolf’s growl, Arya watched brown boots lurk closer and closer to her hiding spot. Without a warning, a strong hand darted down and grabbed Arya’s arm, pulling her out from under the dragon’s bones.

“Let me go!” Arya’s stomach swelled with pride when she realized her growl was just as scary as her direwolf’s.  Nymeria matched her owner’s anger, and before the wolf could pounce on the intruder, the man let go of her with haste.

The man’s ice blue eyes looked over Arya with amazement, and then glazed over Nymeria with caution. “Are you lost?” Questions flowed out of the man’s mouth and he looked at Arya with both worry and curiousness. If the man knew she was Arya Stark of Winterfell, he didn’t show it.

“I’m not _lost_.” She snapped at the bull-headed boy. “I was just leaving.”

“Do you need help navigating your way out of the dungeons? I’ll escort you.” He insisted as if she was one of those delicate and frail paper dolls that Sansa used to play with as a child.

“I can make my way out of the dungeons just fine on my own.” She lied. Honestly, she had no idea where she was going. Arya spun on her heels, and walked to the door that the man came out of. Surely, that was the way out.

“No, you don’t.” The man called out the obvious. By the sound of his footsteps, she could tell he was following her, and he was trying her patience. With her hand on the knob of the dungeon’s door, Arya was ready to exit the hallway and leave the man behind her. Before she could, he dared to laugh at her. “If you go that way, you’ll only go deeper into the dungeons.”

Her hand stopped cold on the door. Sighing and rolling her eyes, she turned around to look at the man. He had hair at the length of her Brother Robb’s, but unlike her brother, it was straight with small strands of the darkest brown falling to his face. He seemed the same age as her eldest brother as well. His blue eyes were taunting her, and he was trying to suppress a smirk. Everything about the man irked Arya. _He must be one of the King’s Bannermen or something of that sort_ , she thought to herself. He wore no armor, and only a plain tunic and trousers, dirtied from riding horses, but he wielded a war hammer on his weapons belt. _But why would a bannerman wield a war hammer around the castle? Perhaps he’s a knight who prefers not to wear his armor? Or mayhaps he's a squire._

Too prideful to agree, she only followed the man as he led her the other way. “So what’s a _l_ _ady_ doing wearing trousers and going through the dungeons all by herself with a wolf following her?” He walked at her pace next to her and raised an eyebrow questioning her reasons. _He really must be thick._  She thought, _only Stark children have direwolves as companions, and everyone in the Red Keep should be out enough to know that. Even when they were only pups, word and gossip has already spread._

“I wanted to see the dragon bones.” She shrugged. “And trousers are more practical than dresses, and I am _not_ a lady.”

“If you’re not a lady, then what are you doing in the Red Keep? You aren’t dressed as a handmaiden or a whore, and you are too pretty to be a prisoner.”

She scoffed at the man’s would-be compliment. Before she could reply back an equally snarky comment, she sighed and deducted that he must have been jesting with her. “I have my reasons.” Not wanting to reveal her identity, she shrugged again.

He opened the final door out of the dungeon, and she was greeted by the familiar light of the castle. It seemed that his route was shorter than her detour down. Facing the man and wanting to seem at least a bit intimidating, she looked him in the eye. She then abhorred her height difference. Compared to him, she was only a small mouse. “You will tell _nobody_ of this.”

“I would never betray my lady.” The man laughed. Arya frowned and pushed him, not too hard that it would be serious, but just hard enough.

“Do _not_  call me my lady!” She hissed.

“As my lady commands,” The man laughed again, thinking that his own words were amusing. Arya pushed him again harder. He fell to the floor this time, but he didn’t mind. He was too busy laughing. He gasped between breaths, “Well that was unladylike of you.”

Arya groaned and stormed away from the bull-headed man, giving up on him. It wasn’t long before one of her father’s bannermen found and addressed her.

“Lady Stark, your mother has summoned you. If I may escort you?” Without her agreement, the man started to lead the way to her mother’s temporary quarters in the Keep. Arya sighed and readied herself for a string of arguments.

* * *

 “ _Arya Stark_ ,” Her mother said, fuming, “I let you out of my sight for _one second_ and you disappear! You are nearly six-and ten, and you still act like a child. I have given up on trying to make you a lady long ago, but at least act more controlled. I haven’t seen you for six moons, are you are so quick leave.” Her mother’s expression softened for a moment before quickly returning. “Thank the Gods, Old and The New, that your father’s bannerman found you when he did. King Robert is throwing a feast for your father’s arrival tonight, and we must get you ready.”

Arya sighed, but didn’t want to argue further with her mother. They chained Nymeria and Lady in the stables with the horses while a few handmaids scrubbed Arya’s skin to the bone, getting every single substance of dirt off her as they could. Roses floated on the rim of her bath water, and Arya watched them dance in the water as the other handmaidens washed her long Stark brown hair. After she was properly bathed, her mother dismissed the handmaids. A dress was chosen for her already specifically for the feast.

“Sansa wanted a dress made for you upon your arrival.” Catelyn informed Arya as she helped her get into the gown. “It may not be an exact fit, but they went off Sansa’s measurements and only a size smaller.”

“Where is Sansa?” Arya asked. Surely, she would’ve been getting ready with her sister and mother.

“She is with Margaery.” 

Arya frowned and stared at her reflection in the looking glass. The cloth around her bust was too tight, making it as if she was a whore. The area where her hips should’ve filled in was baggy, but her mother was quick to pin the fabrics so it looked customly sewn for her size. The dress was a pale blue color with embroidery of golden flowers stitched in, similar to the kind of dresses that Margaery wore. Arya knew her sister meant well, and wanted the dress to be a gift, but that didn’t mean Arya had to enjoy it. The bodice was terribly confining, and the pins her mother placed in the dress poked and jabbed at her skin to no end.

After her mother was finished with her dress, she sat her down on the room’s vanity and let her long brown hair stay down, with a single braid down the top middle, the way some Northern women prefer. Arya had to admit, she was grateful her mother didn’t make her wear her hair the way the Southern women wear it. She then put rouge on her cheeks and lips, much to her disagreement, but her mother didn’t care.

“You look beautiful.” Her mother smiled and looked at the looking glass with Arya.

“I look like a stranger.” She sighed. In her opinion, rouge made her cheeks and lips look too red, as if they were bloodied. The powder applied on her face was too light, making her look too pale, as if she was dying. The dress hugged her uncomfortably, and in all the wrong places. Arya Stark didn’t look like Arya Stark. She looked like a wolf being stuffed into a dress and being forced to wear makeup. And that’s exactly what she was.

“You look like a true and proper lady of the North.” Her mother kissed her forehead.

* * *

 The feast was just as any other feast Arya Stark was forced to attend; boring. She sat down at a table while ladies and lords of court danced around her. Sansa and Margaery were the most beautiful ladies at the feast of course, socializing with others and dancing as if they were born to. It wasn’t long before her father dragged her from her seat and danced with her himself. The music stopped and paused as the royal family made their way to their table. The fat and plump king sat next to his wife, Cersei Baratheon. She looked at everyone coldly as if they were all her enemies. She was beautiful though, in a menacingly seductive way. Despite her age, her long and flowing blonde hair and her face made her look like a siren to some men. Then, their children filed through behind them and sat down in their respectful seats. Tommen Baratheon, the youngest of their children, sat next to his mother. He was perhaps as old as Rickon, but the mother still held her child close as if he was a baby. Still, the boy seemed kind enough. Myrcella Baratheon sat next to her youngest brother, and she shared the beauty of the queen, without the resentment and spite. Already, her baby fat had vanished from her face, and her body was forming to a woman’s. The next Baratheon child sat down, with flaxen hair just like the previous three children, except he wore the prideful and cold expression of his mother. With complete astonishment, Arya watched as the last of the Baratheon children sat down. His brown hair and blue eyes were recognizable from a score away. When he sat down, he smirked with satisfaction as he looked upon Arya’s face of shock.

It was then, that Arya decided that she hated the heir to the Iron Throne.

Arya’s father must’ve noticed her staring, because he looked between the oldest son of the king, and back to his daughter with curiosity. His face then contorted into amusement, as if he knew what she was thinking. As if she _fancied_ the man. _Father, you are far from the truth,_ Arya thought as she watched Ned Stark give her an all-knowing smile.

“My friends…” The king rose to speak. “Tonight we are celebrating the arrival of Lord Eddard Stark and his family. Let the feast begin, and the drinking never end!” The lords and ladies cheered as the music continued to play, but this time, more upbeat. Arya was traded between multiple lords as dance partners, much to her distaste. Even Renly Baratheon, her sister’s betrothed, danced with Arya. He seemed nice and handsome enough, but he almost looked like the spitting image of the heir to the throne, too much alike for comfort. After he danced with Arya, and they talked nicely with each other, he went back to her sister. By the looks of it, he told her a joke, and she and Margaery laughed together as if it was the funniest thing in Westeros.

Cheers were louder as the music makers started to play The Bear and the Maiden Fair as drunken lords sang the lyrics. Just as Arya was about to return to her seat, one of those drunk lords seized her by the waist a little too harshly and pulled her a little too close. His hand trailed too close to her arse for comfort, and before Arya could seethe away from him, a man tapped her shoulder, asking her to dance. She thanked both the Old and The New Gods as she was passed along to him, thinking she was saved, but she only realized after she held his hand and after his arm was wrapped around her waist that it was Gendry Baratheon, the heir to the Iron Throne.

“ _Oh I’m a maid, and I’m pure and fair, and I’ll never dance with a hairy bear!_ ” Arya could even hear the drunk King start to sing along with the rest of the men.  

“You knew I was Arya Stark, and yet you didn’t tell me you were Gendry Baratheon.” She glared at him as he spun her around, and she reluctantly continued to dance without enthusiasm.

“Of course I knew you were Arya Stark. What other lady ventures with a direwolf as a companion, and wears trousers, and is brave enough to explore the dungeons of the Red Keep, other than the famous Arya Stark of Winterfell? I thought my lady knew who I was.” Gendry laughed and shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal, which it was.

“I told you not to call me my lady,” Was all Arya could hiss back in return. That only seemed to make Gendry laugh harder.

“ _Then she sighed and squealed, and kicked the air! She sang: My bear so fair. And off they went! The bear! The bear_!” The men continued to shout as they tried to sing. Even Gendry joined in singing, and Arya decided then, that she hated the song The Bear and the Maiden Fair.

Looking around the feasting room, Arya saw her father and the king laugh amongst each other as what she could guess, reminisced old times, which Arya did not want to know what the king and her father did together when they were young. Sansa was sitting down with Margaery, like a proper lady. Her betrothed seemed to be off drunk and laughing with Loras Tyrell, Margaery’s brother. Arya heard that Loras and Renly were close friends, so Loras visited the Red Keep for his friend’s wedding. But Arya could see the truth so clearly by only looking at the pair of men laughing together. For the first time in her life, Arya Stark pitied her elder sister.

When the song ended, the king stood from his seat and quieted the crowd. The king was so intoxicated with alcohol that his wife had to help him stand; else he would’ve doubled over. Arya’s father returned to his seat and sat with her mother.

“My old friend, this feast was thrown and put together in haste to welcome you and your family to King’s Landing, and to celebrate the betrothal of your daughter and my brother.” People cheered, and the King wobbled. Ned looked worried and as if he was contemplating if he should tell the King to sit down before he embarrasses himself and his Kingdom, but thinks better of it. Then, the king laid his eyes on Arya for the first time. His eyes widened with recognition as if he'd seen a mirage. The queen looked to Arya's direction, trying to see what set the king in his frozen state, and when she laid her eyes on herfor the first time, she looked as if she'd seen a ghost. _Is it because I was dancing with their eldest son?_ Arya realized Gendry was still standing close to her, and she stepped away, wanting to put a safe distance between them. But the king and queen didn’t stop staring at her. Even Gendry seemed to catch on, and he looked at her oddly, but not knowing why his parents seemed to take a sudden interest in her.

“It is her… _Lyanna_ …” The King gasped. Arya recognized her aunt’s name. She looked to her father, and his eyes widened for a second, realizing what’s happening. He then quickly stood up and walked towards his youngest daughter as if protecting her.

“Ned,” Robert spoke as if he regained his composure. The queen’s shoulders finally went down and she breathed out as if she got over the shock like her husband. “Ned, I should’ve married your sister long ago, but it is not too late. I have a son, you have a daughter. Let us join houses.”

 

 


	2. The Caged Wolf

The queen was the first person. Her face became white, and just for once in her life, she lost her composure.

                “My love, the night is old. We should return to our chambers for the night.” Cersei laced her hand through the king’s, trying to fake affection and drag him out of the feast.

                “No. Don’t you dare take me away from Lyanna. I will never leave her again.” The king stared at Arya as he addressed her dead aunt. His eyes stared and searched Arya hungrily, and Arya felt sick to her stomach. Ned put an arm on his daughter’s shoulder, and his lips formed a thin line. When Arya looked to her sister and mother, Sansa looked scandalized and glanced at the king as if she couldn’t believe he would do such an un-honorable act. Her mother, on the other hand, only frowned.

                “The woman you see is not Lyanna, my sweet, Lyanna Stark died years ago. You are looking at Arya Stark.” Cersei whispered into the King’s ear, further trying to calm his craze.

                But the king looked anything but unfazed. Before he could reply, Ned went up to the king himself and placed his hand on his oldest friend’s shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, Arya could see Cersei glancing at her brother. Without a second to lose, Jaime Lannister was at the king’s other shoulder, and together, Ned and the Kingslayer escorted the intoxicated king out of the feast. Arya’s mother didn’t waste any time to gracefully excuse herself and follow her husband. Lords and ladies that attended the feast whispered and gossiped nervously amongst each other.

                All Arya could do was stay planted in her spot, with her fists clenched in fury. _How dare they…_ she thought, _How dare a drunk king declare my future for me. I will_ not _marry the Prince because a drunk bastard told me to. I am staying in Winterfell. I will never marry. I refuse to._

                Arya could see Sansa and Margaery talking to each other in a hushed fashion, until Sansa finally stood up and went to where the king had stood moments before. The crowd instantly hushed themselves in Sansa’s presence. She raised her head up confidently and straightened her posture.

                “My friends, let the feast continue! For the night is young, and the king was only sent off to fetch more ale. Let the music continue and the feasting last all night and all day.” Sansa’s words worked like the milk of the poppy, soothing the guests. The attendants cheered, with the event of the king momentarily forgotten. Sansa smiled with satisfaction as the lute players continued to play, as did the singers. The already drunken lords needed no more words of encouragement to keep doing what they were doing. The ladies continued to gossip amongst themselves until Margaery came to them with a smile on her face, and got all of them to dance and sing merrily. But when Sansa looked to Arya, her eyes turned from kindness to bitterness. She narrowed her eyes down at her younger sister and frowned as if Arya had done something wrong.

                And that’s when Arya realized. Sansa was born to be a queen. In her eyes, her own little sister was going to be granted the future that Sansa could never have, but has always dreamed of. All the kindness Sansa has dared to show Arya earlier this day was forgotten. Now, Arya Stark was an enemy.

* * *

 

                The next morning, Arya and Sansa and Catelyn broke their fast together in silence. They all gathered in Catelyn and Ned’s temporary chambers, and Sansa’s temporary handmaiden while she was staying at the Red Keep, Shae, served the Stark women their food. None of them dared to speak a word about the catastrophic feast that transpired the evening before. That is, until Sansa opened her mouth.

                “It isn’t fair.” Sansa growled. When she wanted to be, her bite was as terrible as any of the other Starks.

                “Sansa…” Catelyn started, but Arya shut her mother out.

                “Sansa, the king was drunk. It was an empty promise without any meaning. You are truly stupid.” Arya snapped back in return.

                “Arya.” Cat was sharper with her youngest daughter, but Sansa continued.

                “It isn’t fair that you get to be the _Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_ when you never even wanted to be queen of anything! It isn’t fair how you will marry gallant and handsome Prince Gendry, while I only marry his old uncle. I am the eldest daughter, and I deserve a better match than the _youngest_ daughter.” Sansa barked in retaliation. Both Arya and Catelyn looked to Sansa with shocked expressions. This was nothing like Sansa at all.

                “ _Sansa_!” Catelyn shouted between her daughters.

                “And what happened to all those songs you sang about how Renly Baratheon was ‘ _my one true love!’_ ” Arya put her hand over her heart and parroted the words Sansa used to so frequently repeat.

                “ _Arya_!” Catelyn’s voice was like thunder now. Both daughters didn’t dare to continue. “Both of you are acting like small children! Even Bran and Rickon don’t act like this.” Cat then turned her head to her eldest daughter. “Sansa, I cannot believe how childish you are acting. You are to be married soon, and that is that. Your father is talking with the king as we speak to sort out what exactly happened last night. Both of you are women grown, and you are still giving me more of a headache than Rickon ever has.”

                Sansa had the nerve to stare at her younger sister still, until she finally put her napkin on the table. “May I be excused?” She spat out less as a question and more as a demand.

                “Go ahead.” Their mother put her hand on her forehead as if she had a terrible impending migraine. Sansa pushed back her chair and stormed off, most likely to confine with Margaery. Before Arya could excuse herself as well, it was _her_ turn to be yelled at this time. “Arya, even _if_ it was an empty promise from the king, it is high time you are to be married anyways. Sansa was two years younger than you are when she was betrothed to Renly, and Robb was the same age when promised to Margaery. Your father and I were even considering to start finding Bran a match by now. You can’t put off your marriage forever.”

                _Watch me,_ Arya thought. “But I don’t _want_ to marry! I want to stay in Winterfell with Robb and Bran and Rickon.”

                “I am sorry, my sweet, but we women must make do with what we have.” Cat smiled weakly. “Do not worry, your father and I will find as best of a match we can. We will never let you marry someone unworthy.”

                Arya frowned. _Why does she expect me to be grateful for her choosing a “good” match? I shouldn’t be in a situation where I need to be “matched”._ After silence, Arya sighed as well. “May I be excused?”

                Her mother looked as if she was about to protest, as Arya has barely touched her food, but she only nodded and went back to rubbing her forehead.

* * *

 

                After leaving her mother’s chambers, Arya honestly did not know what to do. She had already seen the dragon bones the previous day, and that was all Arya was truly looking forward to. Arya definitely didn’t want to go to the gardens. And why would she? Arya would only be laughed at and gossiped about right in front of her face by the ladies of court. So all Arya did was stay and sit on the bed of the chambers she was temporarily given. She felt like a caged animal ready to be butchered.

                There were two dainty knocks on the door of her chambers. Arya’s back straightened, and she craned her neck as if she was trying to look over the door. There were only two people that would knock on her door and be that graceful about it. It would either be Sansa or… “May I come in?” Margaery’s voice sang through her walls.

                “Come in, the door is not locked.” Arya answered, baffled that her good-sister chose now to bond. Margaery opened the door and smiled to greet her. She wore a loose emerald green gown, contrasting with all the other Highgarden styled gowns she usually wore. This was much more of a Northern style. It grazed over her swelling stomach beautifully, giving Margaery the perfect image of a healthy woman. One hand unconsciously went to her stomach and rubbed where her child was growing, and her smile grew wider.

                “I thought I would find you here.” Margaery came closer to Arya, and sat on the chair next to her featherbed.

                “Why aren’t you with Sansa?” Arya hadn't meant to sound rude, but she was only curious.

                Margaery smiled to herself and looked out the window of Arya’s room. The window had a beautiful view of Blackwater Bay, Arya had to admit. “Lady Catelyn is talking with your sister.” Arya nodded, not sure what else to say to Margaery. “Your sister told me of your troubles.”

                “Oh,” Arya sighed and slouched back down on her bed, not quite up for another conversation about the drunk king’s proposal.

                “I understand how you must be feeling.” Margaery spoke again, and placed her hand back on her stomach. “But you must understand, Arya. You don’t know what this might turn out to be. Some women like ugly men, pretty men, pretty girls… most women don’t know what they like until they’ve tried it.” Margaery then got up from her chair and went to the side of Arya’s bed, and held her hand in hers. “Us women must learn to make the best of our circumstances.” Margaery smiled again, truly trying to reach out to the young Stark. “I know that when I was told I was to marry your brother, I wasn’t quite in the best state, but look at me now. I am in love, and I am with child. Things might not turn differently than you expect.”

                _But this is different,_ Arya thought, _you’ve always wanted to be married. You dreamt of being Queen one day, and that’s what you got. I don’t want to be married at all._ But Arya didn’t want to voice her thought aloud. Margaery’s smile was contagious, and Arya couldn’t help but only bring the corners of her lips up the slightest. Not wanting to discuss things with Margaery any more, Arya tried to sound as if Margaery has helped her state of mind. “Thank you, Margaery.”

                Margaery smiled again. “Come to me any time you wish, Arya. After all, we are _sisters_.”

                “Of course,” Arya tried to return the smile. She then fake yawned and frowned sympathetically. “Forgive me, Margaery, but I am still feeling quite tired from last night.”

                “No need to ask for forgiveness.” Margaery was already on her way to the door. With her hand on the knob, she turned to Arya one last time. “Perhaps when we return to Winterfell, we can go riding together.”

                “Yes, perhaps.” Arya’s smile was quite genuine this time, and she was fond of the idea of riding with Margaery. Or maybe she just missed Winterfell too much. Or maybe she was just grateful that Margaery didn’t ask to embroider together with Arya, like she did with Sansa. With a final smile, Margaery exited the room as gracefully as she entered.

                Alone again, Arya huffed and dropped herself back onto her bed. _I hate King’s Landing,_ Arya thought. _I never should’ve visited; I should’ve stayed in Winterfell._

* * *

 

                It wasn’t long before Arya was summoned to her mother and father’s chambers again. When she arrived, she wasn’t expecting the crowd she was granted. Her mother and father sat together on a chair. Sansa sat on the edge of their bed with excellent posture, but her expression showed she hasn’t quite forgiven Arya. Margaery sat next to Sansa on the bed, only giving Arya a smile of encouragement. On the other side of the room, the King and Queen stood next to each other, and the Prince sat on the chair next to them. As soon as Arya realized Gendry was in the same room, she looked at anywhere but him. She wasn’t sure why, but for some reason her anger correlated with him as well. _Because he’s a bull-headed idiot, that’s why._

                When King Robert laid eyes on her, however, his focus was only on her.  

                “The King and I have been discussing this issue all day.” Her father addressed her. His expression wasn’t happy, but rather stressed, as if he’s been arguing with the King all day and night since the feast. “We have come to a conclusion that the betrothal isn’t official, but the offer is still standing. We both agreed that you should get to know the young Prince better, and if you still disagree with the match then… we’ll come to an agreement.”

                But Arya knew that was impossible. It was already decided for her. The King would never allow otherwise.

                She is going to be Gendry’s bride, and there was no escape.

* * *

 

 


	3. Garden of Bones

It has been a week since Arya’s betrothal was announced, and only a day more since she and her father and good-sister has arrived in King’s Landing, and this morning was the morning of Sansa’s wedding. Arya sat on her sister’s featherbed in the Red Keep and watched as Cat dismissed Sansa’s handmaidens so she could do her daughter’s hair. Only one handmaiden stayed as she did Sansa’s makeup. Arya recognized her dark hair and foreign features as Shae, apparently Sansa’s favorite handmaiden.

                “I remember the day I birthed you,” Cat said as her hands wove through her daughter’s red hair, forming it up into a Southern style. “And now I am readying you to be married.” Her mother looked as if she was on the verge of tears.

                “Mother, you are too dramatic.” Sansa smiled as she looked at her reflection in the looking glass. “I will visit you and father in Winterfell. And you are always welcome in Storm’s End.”

                _But not me,_ Arya added silently. Although the remote bitterness has faded away from Sansa, they still rarely spoke to each other since her betrothal. Sometimes, Sansa would even give her a small forgiving smile while they passed each other, but nothing else.

                “I know that, but it is still a sad yet happy experience for a mother to dress her daughter for her wedding. I am sure you will share the experience in due time.” Catelyn smiled at that idea and looked at Sansa with pride.

                “What if I _only_ have daughters?” Sansa frowned and looked like a wilting flower. “Everyone in Storm’s End will hate me.”

                “No one will ever _hate_ you, Sansa.” Catelyn was quick to remind her daughter. Sansa didn’t reply, but only sat in silence as Shae painted rouge on her cheeks and her mother braided the last of her hair.

                Then, their father knocked on the door, and Shae got up and welcomed him in. Ned was holding the Stark cloak with a Direwolf on it. His expression matched that of his wife; happy, yet nostalgic.

                “It’s time, love,” was all he said. Sansa took a deep breath and got up from her chair. Ned draped the cloak around her and tied it in place. Before they all left her chambers, her parents took a final look at her. Obviously, Sansa was beautiful. And she was always the beautiful Stark sister, while Arya was known as Arya Horseface. But Arya didn’t mind. It was true, after all.

                All of the Starks present for Sansa’s wedding were dressed in their best apparel. Ned and Catelyn were both dressed in their house colors, with Ned in a grey tunic and Cat in a dark dress with white embroidery and detail. Arya was jammed into a Northern style gown with fringe at the neckline, despite the hellish weather the South granted them. Margaery was radiant in a Northern styled gown herself, flaunting her new house and her swelling stomach. Sansa however, was the most beautiful of them all. She was dressed in her new house’s color, with a cheery Baratheon golden-yellow wedding gown. Her Tully red hair contrasted beautifully with her wedding dress, and her blue eyes shined with hope. Flowers were delicately stitched with white on her skirts. Sansa looked the happiest Arya has ever seen.     

* * *

                                                                                        

                Of course, the wedding was beautiful. Even the procession itself was breathtaking, even for Arya’s standards. The attendants of House Stark walked from the Red Keep to the Great Sept of Baelor with the High Septon of King’s Landing and Septa Mordane. House Baratheon was already in the Great Sept of Baelor, waiting for the bride’s family. Sansa held Margaery’s hand for assurance, and they both waved at the crowds together as they weaved seamlessly through the townsfolk. The civilians of King’s Landing adored Sansa and Margaery, despite their short visit. In the week before the wedding, they both visited Flea Bottom together and attended the orphanages and gave bread to the hungry. Arya was again hit with the sudden reminder that Sansa can never live the dream she has always dreamed. And so as long as it continues, Sansa will never truly forgive her sister.

* * *

 

                “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The High Septon announced. Renly nodded and gracefully untied his own yellow and black cloak bearing the Baratheon Stag with a crown on its neck and wrapped it around his bride. To others Sansa would’ve looked like any other girl that was to marry a High Lord. _Except she took a deep breath_. Arya twitched when she saw her sister’s subtle and unconscious reaction, and Arya was sure she was the only attendant who noticed, but she was worried and curious. _Has Sansa discovered the truth of her husband?_ Arya wondered to herself.

                The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor rang a cheerful tune to announce that the King’s brother and his bride have exchanged their vows, and Lady Stark has been cloaked. So then, the attendants proceeded from the Great Sept and to the Red Keep for the feast. Arya rode in the carriage with her mother and father and Margaery, while Sansa was riding with her new husband and new good-family. Arya picked at the dirt under her nails awkwardly and fiddled with the fringe at her neck, vowing to chop it off as soon as she arrived at the Red Keep.

                As usual with all the other feasts, Arya sat alone and isolated on her chair as she continuously stabbed the roasted duck on her plate. But something didn’t quite feel right. _The filthy King must be leering at me again,_ Arya guessed. But when she glanced to the side, out of the corner of her eye she saw the King groping some drunken lady that managed to find her way in the Royal Wedding Feast.

But this perplexed Arya even more. Completely disengaged with the demolished duck on her plate, she searched the room with her Stark grey eyes. Sansa was sitting at the Royal Table now, talking to the Queen and Princes Myrcella, like a true and proper lady would. But it was the man sitting next to the Princess. Gendry’s blue eyes searched through Arya as hungrily as Arya wanted to escape the room. _What an improper bastard. If he wanted to talk to me, he can just as well walk over here. He doesn’t have to grope me with his sight like his father._ Arya snorted and decided to have some fun at the feast. Might as well anyways, she was supposed to stay here all night.

Arya sneaked along the empty tables until she found an abandoned seat with a full goblet of Dornish wine. Some lord must’ve left it there in haste to dance. Without hesitation, Arya downed the entire goblet in one drink. Already feeling the buzz of the alcohol, she decided it was finally time to proceed.  But before she got anywhere, she was stopped by a different man.

“My Lady?” He smiled to her, but looked awkward and embarrassed. His skin was tanned and had pale blonde hair and had blue eyes, not as magical as Gendry’s, but they even appeared purple in certain lightings. “I am Edric Dayne the… the Lord of Starfall. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Arya.”

What was Arya supposed to say next? He has already greeted himself, and he already knows her name so there’s no point in introducing herself, and Arya sure as hell didn’t remember any of her lessons. So she just went with it. “What brings you to King’s Landing, my lord?” Arya decided to add the small ‘my lord’ at the end as a small touch.

“Why, to attend your sister’s wedding of course.” Edric smiled and walked to Arya’s side and together they walked closer to where lords and ladies were dancing. “May I ask my lady for this dance?” He japed. Arya snorted. She liked the Lord of Starfall already. Edric placed his hand on her shoulder and the other on her waist lightly and almost touched her as if she was fire. As if he was scared of her. She knew he meant no offense, but rather he was too chivalrous. She didn’t have to worry about tripping over her own feet because Edric was equally as awful. They talked a bit, and Arya laughed a bit, and then Edric laughed too.

When Arya looked up again to the bull-headed Prince, he so happened to glance at her from the corner of his eye. When he saw Edric and her arm-in-arm, he didn’t just look away like a normal Prince would. No, he had the decency to _snort_ then look away. Arya frowned and looked back at Edric.

“To be quite honest my lady, I came here for another reason as well.”

“Call me Arya.”

“ _Call me Ned.”_

 “Then, _Ned_ , what other reason did you have to visit the capital?”

Ned looked at his feet and then to Arya as if suddenly conscious he’s been dancing with her. He then put back on the mask he was wearing earlier, the embarrassed and shy mask. “My family thought perhaps our houses could have an alliance… through marriage. But with the sudden announcement the King made, I do not think that would be possible.”

“Oh,” Arya looked to her feet as well, and stepped back a bit away from Ned. _Of course, everything is about marriage._

Before Ned could reply, a shout resonated through the feasting hall.

“ _Time for the_ _Bedding Ceremony_ ,” A lord announced. Other lords of the court cheered and snickered as they raised Sansa from her chair. She looked as if she was going to argue at first, and Arya felt a sudden ounce of pride for her sister, but then she just limped like a rag doll as lords she barely knew cheered as they tore her dress to pieces off her body.

Arya was disgusted.

Renly was faring no better as ladies giggled to themselves as they pulled off his tunic then carried him out of the feasting hall. But Renly was lucky. Margaery did most of the work, and tried her best to hide him from the guests, but a Bedding Ceremony was a Bedding Ceremony, and it was inevitable. Arya wasn’t even sure _when_ Renly and Margaery bonded.

Staggering back to the nearest table, Arya managed to find another half-filled goblet of Dornish wine and emptied it again in one full gulp. Ned walked away somewhere during the Bedding Ceremony. _Probably to rip the dress off my sister,_ Arya thought. Arya found another goblet and downed it all. _I hate weddings,_ Arya’s mind babbled on as she downed each drink; _I will need a lot more of this Dornish wine to get me through the rest of the night._ Raising her head to the ceiling, she tried to count how many candles were on the dangling chandelier above them. She couldn’t even count three before blinking and starting over…. which was a good sign in her mind.

But when she looked back to the feast and tried to walk, her footing betrayed her, and she was set to fall on the floor. A firm hand grabbed her arm with a soft yet forgiving grip, saving her just before she completely lost her balance. Looking up, all she could recognize were blue eyes.

“It’s you.” Arya grumbled.

“You’ve had too much to drink.” His voice was steady and on the verge of sounding like he actually cared for her welfare. But she knew that wasn’t true.

“Oh, have I now?” Arya giggled. “I’ve lost count.”

“Come on now,” Gendry tugged her arm again, but with less force. “I’ll take you to your chambers before your parents notice your intoxication.”

“Let them see me,” Arya frowned, hardly thinking of the words escaping her mouth. “I’m a woman grown; I can make my own choices.” Her eyes then cornered on a full goblet. “And my choice right now is that filled goblet of Dornish wine.”

“No you don’t,” Before Arya could slip away he hauled her over his shoulder. _Just like how Jon used to._ Arya realized with a start, and almost thought she was sober, but blinked again and the drunken craze returned.

“Let me down!” Arya pounded on the Prince’s back. “You wanted to take me away before my parents see me? Now they will see me all well since you’re _carrying_ me!”

“I lied.” Gendry started going down the hall of the feast, leading her away from the rest of the drunken lords and ladies. “Your parents left during the Bedding Ceremony. I’m making sure you don’t embarrass yourself in front of the rest of the attendants.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.” Arya gave up on hitting his back now. Now, she was just so tired. She became limp on his back and just let him drag her away. They were already out of the feasting hall, and on their way to the stairwell leading to her chambers in the Red Keep.

After a terribly long silence, Gendry decided to speak to her. “Is the Lord of Starfall to your liking, My Lady?” His voice dripped with sarcasm and attitude Arya had too much of a headache to deal with.

“ _Seven Hells_ , Gendry.” Arya groaned and rubbed the sides of her forehead as she saw her mother doing quite often.

“You can’t help that I’m curious about who my to-be-Lady Wife is dancing with at wedding feasts.” Gendry retorted.

“I’m a person, not a bloody _goat_ ,” Arya raised her voice, although her words here slurred together. Gendry apologized for his words, and Arya rubbed her temples, her head throbbing from the aftereffects of the wine. She groaned, “you stupid bull-headed Prince.”

Gendry didn’t reply, but only laughed at Arya. His laughter only agitated her more, but he finally set her down on the floor. She wobbled, so he placed his arms on her shoulders to steady her.

“This is as far as I can take you.” He said, his blue eyes bringing her back to reality.

“Why?”

“I cannot go in your chambers.” Gendry replied quickly, and almost acted like Ned Dayne when certain things were implied. Arya snorted at Gendry’s sudden chivalry, which never seemed to be present before.

“I promise you that if you walk me to my bed that my maidenhead will still be intact.” Arya rolled her eyes. She expected the Prince to scold her for using such harsh language, like others always do, but he never did. Instead, he laughed.

“As My Lady commands,” He snickered as he helped her through the doorway.

“ _DontcallmeMyLady_.”  Arya couldn’t even form an understandable sentence for any longer. His laughing continued. When he helped her onto her featherbed, he pulled up the sheets and tucked her in much like how her brothers and father used to back when she was a small girl.

“Good night, Arya.” The Prince was at her bedside bidding her goodnight, but the Northern Princess was already far too deep in her slumber to notice. For a moment, he watched her lay so peacefully on the plush featherbed. She looked so at ease and calm, and her beauty was obviously evident with the moonlight beaming off her now prominent cheekbones and smoothed skin. She looked like a normal princess. Gendry snickered at that thought. He knew that Arya was anything but a normal princess. Gendry even knew deep in his heart that if Arya was conscious and knew that Gendry was staring at her in this way, she wouldn’t hesitate to fulfill her empty threats of injuring him dearly.

But that’s why he found her so interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't really sit well with me... not sure why.
> 
> Anyways, thank you for all of your follows and reviews. Never expected a response! :)


	4. Tourney of the Hand

Arya sat in her mother and father’s solar, with her fingers drumming rhythmically on the oak table. Her hair was greased and she wore a dirtied tunic and trousers, worn out from visiting the dungeons multiple times. There was simply nothing better to do during those empty days. Sansa and Renly often walked in the gardens together while they weren’t in court. While Margaery herself wasn’t in court, she often spent her time with her good-mother, letting Sansa warm up to her new husband. The Prince wasn’t even an option. She often never saw him in the Red Keep anymore, with the last memory of him was back at Sansa’s wedding feast, with the Prince staring at her while she danced with the Lord of Starfall. She honestly couldn’t remember the rest of the feast, probably due to the fact that she downed all those filled goblets of Dornish wine.

Catelyn entered the solar, looking as regal as ever. Her posture was high, her Tully red hair glistened against the sunlight, and her Northern dress set her apart from all the dogs of the court. Yet as soon as she saw her youngest daughter, her peaceful expression went up in flames.

“ _Arya Stark!”_ Catelyn screamed in horror. “Where have you _been_?”

Arya frowned and looked bored when she answered her crazed mother. “I was exploring the Red Keep.”

“And why are you wearing trousers? And you look like you haven’t bathed ever since Sansa’s wedding!”

 “I’ll bathe as soon as you dismiss me, mother.”Her mother’s accusations were only partly true. On her way back from the dungeons earlier this day, she was stopped by one of her father’s Bannermen, claiming that Lady Catelyn Stark has requested her daughter’s presence, and then escorted her here.

Her mother sighed and sat on the chair in front of Arya, deciding to give up on the lifelong argument. Now only partially calmed down, her mother addressed her formally and with all seriousness, yet she used the condescending tone as if she was speaking to Rickon or even Bran, but not a grown woman like Arya Stark.

“You _do_ know the reason why your father came with us?”

“For Sansa’s wedding,” Arya guessed, but judging by her mother’s expression, it wasn’t the right answer.

“Your father and the King are old friends, Arya.” Her mother explained. But Arya knew all too well the ‘ _friendship’_ between the Lord of the North and the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Catelyn’s expression became sober and saddened. “When Jon Arryn died of illness, the spot for the Hand of the King was empty.” Arya’s expression matched that of her Lady Mother’s as soon as the notion fell into place. “King Robert summoned your father here with the request that he takes the position as the Hand. That is why ever since you’ve arrived in King’s Landing, your father has been spending all his time talking with the King.”

“But he _can’t_!” Arya exclaimed, suddenly forgetting that she was upset with her mother only moments ago. “He’s already done enough for the King. He’s even marrying his only two daughters to the King’s family!”

“I know that, Arya.” Catelyn’s expression saddened further. “But you cannot deny the request of the King.”

Arya wanted to argue further, but knew that it wouldn’t make a difference. Ned Stark will be forced to accept the new position in court as the Hand of the King. The Northern Lord through and through will be forced to stay in King’s Landing with power he’s never wanted. _A lone wolf stranded in a lion’s den_.

* * *

 

The Hand’s Tourney was scheduled only a few evenings after Ned Stark was announced with his new Title. Arya fidgeted uncomfortably in the dress she was forced to wear. The royal seamstress made a Southern styled dress for Arya, under Margaery’s request. It was probably under good intentions, and the Southern dress was much more comfortable to wear in the South anyways, but she could only imagine how comfortable she would be in simple trousers. The fabric of the dress was light and thin, unlike the thick layers of fabric used in the practical Northern gowns. The sleeves were loose, and there was a silver metal belt cinching at her waist, and the dress itself was a pale yet murky rose color, while Margaery’s was the brightest of blue’s. Arya’s dull brown hair was still braided in a Northern style, thanks to her persistent arguments with her handmaidens.

“I hear that the Prince himself will be competing in the Tourney.” Margaery announced excitedly, expecting an equally excited reaction from Arya. But all Arya did was think of how annoying the stupid Prince was. Margaery laughed at Arya’s expression and continued on dreamily, “I also hear that he’s very _strong_ and _brave_.”

“And _I_ hear he’s a real pain in the arse.” Arya added, but only in the lightest volume for her own enjoyment.

“What was that?” Margaery’s voice chimed innocently.

“Nothing,” Arya smiled to herself and followed her good-sister through the stadium’s seating, until Margaery sat next to Catelyn and Arya sat on Margaery’s other side. On the lower levels of the stadiums, Arya saw Sansa sitting next to her newlywed husband; both watching the empty space boringly while waiting for the Tourney to begin. Sansa wore a Southern styled gown as well, and her hair was styled in a Southern bird’s nest. _They brainwashed her,_ Arya thought sadly, _they made her forget her true home._

Arya’s father was seated next to the King, in the Royal booth with the rest of the Royal family, including the Queen, all her children, and the Imp. They all sat awkwardly together, as if they were forced to be seated next to each other.

“I’m going to go walk for a bit before the Tourney begins.” Arya told Margaery. Her good-sister smiled and nodded approvingly to Arya, allowing her to be dismissed. Arya rose from her seat and descended down the stadium, stretching her legs a bit and walking along the empty land. It was peaceful at first, that is, until she was interrupted by the bull-headed Prince.

“I hear you’re competing today.” Arya addressed Gendry without looking behind her. Because she knew he was already watching her. She was already becoming accustomed to that feeling.  Just to confirm her thoughts, she turned around. Gendry was dressed in full armour, and held a shield bearing the Baratheon colours and insignia.

“What are you wearing?” He asked her, with a face as if he has seen a ghost. Arya scowled and crossed her arms, now even more self conscious than ever.

“I was forced into a dress.” Arya grumbled.

“I think you look pretty.”

“Stop lying to yourself.” Arya sighed, now tired of all the lies that everyone in the Red Keep seemed to repeat quite often. She then laughed, “You’re going to be marrying Arya Horseface, the ‘Wolf Princess of Winterfell’” She repeated her title that all the ladies of court whispered, thinking Arya didn’t hear. “Can you imagine; the ‘gallant and dreamy Prince of the Seven Kingdoms’, and ‘Arya Horseface’?”

Gendry scowled and remained quiet, contemplating on what to say next. “If I win the Tourney, can I name you as the Queen of Love and Beauty?”

“ _Absolutely_ _not_ ,” Arya shook her head instantly. “I will slit your throat before you can even come to my seat with the bouquet.”

And Gendry did not doubt Arya’s threat.

“But then who will I crown?” Gendry jested with his promised.

“What makes you so sure that you will win?” Arya crossed her arms and returned the jest.

“If I _do_ win, then will you let me crown you as the Queen of Love and beauty? And then you will accept that you truly are beautiful, and so will every other attendant at the Tourney of the Hand. It will be our deal.”

“And if you lose, then what do _I_ get to do?” Arya demanded for her part of the deal.

“One day, I will do whatever you wish or say.” Gendry shrugged, since Arya didn’t really think of anything better.

“It is a stupid deal, but fine.” Arya shook Gendry’s hand, and she returned to her seat in the stadium as he readied himself to win.

“Oh, and Arya,” Gendry called for her before she could go too far. She turned around, still holding her skirts so she could walk properly. The Northern Princess looked at him expectantly, waiting without patience for the Prince to finish his words. After a look of uncertainty, the Prince finished before going to his own place, “Don’t let them change you, Arya Stark.”

* * *

 

_Don’t let them change you, Arya Stark._ Gendry’s words still rang in her ears. Fustrated over trying to uncover the true meaning of his words, and frustrated with the damned Prince altogether, Arya huffed when she returned to her seat next to Margaery. Her good-sister didn’t seem to notice much, because she and Cat continued on in their goodhearted conversation of what they would name Margaery’s child. Arya zoned out Margaery’s words and stared at the dirt, waiting for the tourney to begin.

First was the archery tournament. This competition went by like a breeze with not so many competitors. _Perhaps Robb would’ve competed,_ Arya thought with a smile, _or maybe Jon. Oh, how much fun they would’ve had as the finalists, facing off against each other._ But Arya knew that couldn’t, and wouldn’t happen. Jon was the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, and he was at the Wall, far away from Arya. And Robb was in Winterfell, ruling as the King in the North.

A knight from Starfall won the archery match, and so the melee tourney was next. Many ferocious knights competed and failed as well as lords. All Arya could do during the match was jape in her mind of how well Arya could beat all of them. Trained with years of experience as a Water Dancer, Arya could easily take each and every single competitor without a single drop of sweat. When her father learned that Jon forged her sword, only after he left for the Wall, he scheduled so Arya could obtain lessons so that she wouldn’t be a blubbering idiot girl swaying a knife in the air. And so Ned hired Syrio, a master Braavosi fencer, to teach Arya secret “dancing” lessons. So for years, Arya chased cats, got whacked in the knees, and sparred until she got to where she was now. But only the year before, Syrio left and returned for Braavos. He claimed that his work was finished; he taught her all he can. Then he told her to visit Braavos if she ever wanted to finish her training and become a true Water Dancer.

As Arya babbled on in her mind, reminiscing about her old “dancing lessons”, she didn’t notice how they were already down to the melee semifinals. The two matches left were Ser Meryn, a member of the Kingsguard, against Lord Beric Dondarrion. Each man fought with a fiery fever that continued with no end, until finally Lord Beric bested Ser Meryn with a blow to the chest, and with Lord Beric claimed as the winner of the melee tournaments.

The last was jousting, the competition Gendry was to compete in. A never-ending list of knights and lords alike competed, until it came to the finalists. The final two were, indeed, the Prince himself and the Kingslayer. All Arya could do as the two horses, Lannister and Baratheon, charged at each other, was put her hands together and pray to both the Old and the New that the Prince won’t win, and he won’t claim Arya as the Queen of Love and Beauty. No, anything but that. That was always what Sansa wanted, and not Arya Horseface.

Margaery seemed to notice Arya’s concentration on the match because she just giggled and winked at the young Northern Princess with an all-knowing smile, then cheered for the Prince, much to Arya’s distaste. The Queen herself was quite fascinated with the competition as well; eyes widened and encouraged Myrcella and Tommen to cheer for the Lannisters.

The Lannister and Baratheon horses charged with great force. The Kingslayer and the Prince’s lances were aimed at each other, with Jaime Lannister’s smirk showing through his helmet, and the Prince’s concentration emitting from every breath. Every cheer from every attendant was blurred together in a fury as the lances met shields with a loud pang. With the power of a bull, and the bite of a wolf, Jaime’s shield flew from his hand and he was unseated by the young Prince. Cheers erupted from the ladies of court and soldiers almost instantaneously. The Kingslayer shook hands with his nephew, and Gendry was given the flowers to crown a lady the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Keeping his word, he walked up to the direction of Arya’s seat. _No, go away, go anywhere but my seat._ Apparently not being able to read minds, the Prince placed the wreath of blue winter flowers on Arya’s head, laying flat against her braided Stark brown hair. All Arya could do was glare at him, but he gave her his hand and helped her from her seat, now with them standing together.

“To the true Queen of Love and Beauty!” He announced to the crowd. They cheered to the Prince and his Queen of Love and Beauty. Sansa looked to her sister not bitterly, but with a blank expression, probably trying to hide her hate. Arya’s mother and good-sister smiled together and clapped all lady-like, congratulating Arya. But the King didn’t cheer. The King didn’t clap. All he did was stare at the young Stark wolf open-mouthed, and with his brown hair and beard streaked with gray, and the golden crown slanted on his head, Arya could already see the name forming on his lips.

“ _Lyanna,”_


	5. The Wolf Damned With Lions and a Flower

                After Sansa left the Capital to Storm’s End with Renly, Arya has been left with frustration over her sister’s last words. Before Sansa’s departure, she spent the day walking in the gardens with Margaery, embroidering with her mother, and eating meals with her father. When the next morning came Sansa stood in front of her carriage. Renly was talking to the guards, most likely faring each other good fortune on their journey. Sansa looked radiant as ever. In the sunlight, her Tully features were illuminated. She always wore a sad smile when she believed no one was looking, but when she spoke, she plastered on a smile with the skills of Cersei Lannister herself. Arya wondered how Sansa has learned the ways of King’s Landing so quickly.

                After Sansa hugged Margaery, she went to Ned and Catelyn. Ned picked her off her feet like when she was a small girl. Cat kissed her daughter’s cheek and smoothed her hair before hugging her farewell. Glinting in the sun, Arya could spot a few tears reflecting off her mother’s Tully eyes. Then Sansa went to Arya. Her expression wasn’t the fake Lannister smile like before, but now her real expression. Her face was emotionless and like stone, and her eyebrows were slightly furrowed as if she’s spent her entire life frowning. Sansa bent down to hug her only sister, and it was an unexpectedly loving embrace.

                “Don’t lose him, Arya.” Sansa’s voice was but a sweet yet solemn whisper in Arya’s ear. When Sansa pulled away, she replaced her expression with the one the Lannisters taught her. With a final wave to everyone, she departed on the carriage, following her husband and his guards who preferred to ride their horses.

                Now, a week after Sansa’s leave, Arya has been furiously agitated over uncovering the truth behind her sister’s words. It was truly the only thing she took to now, with her father busy in council meetings and caring for the Seven Kingdoms, and Cat and Margaery often spent their time together as well. Sometimes, Arya would be found with Myrcella Baratheon, Gendry’s younger sister and the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. Together they’d usually wander around the Red Keep or discuss their favorite tomes in the keep’s library while Myrcella wasn’t in her lessons. Myrcella is most definitely the most likable member of the Baratheon. Robert is just a drunken King. Cersei is a witch with her words and false cunningness. Joffrey is just an idiot prince. And Gendry… Arya couldn’t find exactly what about the heir to the Iron Throne irked her, but something about the Prince just seemed to always bug Arya.

                “Lady Arya,” Myrcella called for her. Arya glanced up from Nymeria. They were by the stables, where the Queen ordered for Nymeria to be chained. The stables was the only place Nymeria was allowed to roam freely now. Myrcella was beautiful with porcelain skin and flaxen hair. She wore a golden gown for the Baratheon colors, and upon her head was a tiara of flowers. When the young Princess caught up to Arya, she panted for air. She then pointed to the flower crown atop her hair, “Do you like it?”

                “It is quite beautiful.” Arya agreed with her. Honestly, she found nothing special of the daisies, but she simply didn’t want to upset the young girl.

                “Thank you, Lady Arya.”

                “Would you care to go riding with me?”Arya offered. Ever since Arya’s arrival at King’s Landing, she’s been forbidden to go riding at all, even just in circles around the stables. The only privilege she’s been allowed is playing with Nymeria, but still only in the stables.

                “My apologies, Lady Arya, but my lessons were supposed to start already. Maester Pycelle is probably scavenging the Red Keep for me as we speak.” Myrcella gave a wry smile as she stroked Nymeria’s fur. Arya nodded but hid her sadness as she also played with Nymeria, but only before Myrcella was called away. The same Baratheon Bannerman who summoned the Princess away ordered for Nymeria to be chained up again, upon the Queen’s orders. Bitterly, Arya stomped across the Red Keep, without a care that she was causing quite a ruckus. No, she was fed up with the South and all she wanted was to be in Winterfell in the practice fields, riding in the Godswood, hunting with Nymeria, playing with Jon, watching Bran scale the castle’s towers, hearing Rickon’s innocent bubbling laughter, and even Sansa’s insisting hands trying to braid Arya’s hair. Yes, Arya missed all of that. She missed it so much that she didn’t hear the Prince sneaking up on her in the hallways of the Red Keep.

                He tapped her shoulder, and she jumped to the ceiling and reacted like a cat. She grabbed his hand and wrapped it around his own neck, her now behind the man. It was then, that Arya Stark realized she was choking Gendry Baratheon, the heir to the Iron Throne.

                “Seven Hells, Arya.” Gendry exclaimed. Arya hastily let him go and checked around if there were any witnesses. Sure enough, there were no guards or Bannermen in the hallways around the Prince and the Northern Princess.

                “You shouldn’t sneak up on me.” Arya shrugged.

                “Where did you even learn a trick like that?”

                “My dancing teacher,” Arya smirked when she answered Gendry. He of course, was confused. He looked as if he could ask a hundred questions, but he only shook his head defiantly.      

                “Come, I want to show you something.” Gendry said, trying to get off the subject of how exactly Arya learned how to defend herself. Arya frowned, but still followed Gendry. After all, she had nothing better to do. Together, they walked down the halls, outside to the courtyards, and to the stables. They had small talk of how Arya liked it in the South, where Arya answered honestly; she hated it. Gendry chuckled when he heard her answer. They were now in front of where Nymeria was chained, and where the horses were kept. Gendry undid Nymeria’s chains, and the direwolf licked the Prince’s face.

                “What are you doing?” Arya asked. Gendry took his horse out of the stables, and then another behind him.

                “Come on, we’re going riding.” He shrugged.

                “The Queen would never allow it. In fact, she has forbidden for both Nymeria to be chained in the stables, _and_ that I can’t ride.” Arya didn’t know exactly when she started giving a fuck about the Queen, but the words still escaped her mouth.

                “Yeah, I know.” Gendry went to help Arya mount her horse, but she shook her head and easily mounted herself. He then got on his stallion, and they started out the courtyard, with Nymeria trailing behind. Together, they rode out the Iron Gates and went along Blackwater Bay. Gendry was iron set on keeping Arya miles away from Flea Bottom, so they were forced to take the longer route around the Red Keep. They got odd stares from people, but backed off before they would say or do anything. They were well away from Flea Bottom, so no beggars bothered the Prince of Princess. Perhaps they didn’t even know they were the Prince and Princess, because Arya was dressed in her boy’s clothes as usual, and Gendry wasn’t wearing anything special. In fact, his clothes were slightly stained with dirt from the trip. No guards trailed behind them, but Arya’s direwolf did in fact receive many stares. A man tried to pick her up for a reason that Arya wouldn’t know, but Nymeria growled and almost nipped the poor man’s arm off before Arya stopped her. While escaping the Iron Gates, the guards in fact recognized them, but Gendry dared them to say a word about it and the guards kept silent, letting them pass.

                Together the Prince and Princess looked upon the Blackwater Bay with Nymeria sniffing the sand and digging it under her paws. She was probably so confused and used to having snow under her claws, not sand.

                “Myrcella told you?” Arya asked. Gendry had the grace to act like he didn’t know what Arya was mentioning, but after she gave him a look he only shrugged.

                “Yeah,” He said. Arya nodded. Myrcella knew that Arya longed to go riding, and for Nymeria to roam freely, and for whatever reason, she decided to tell her brother. When Gendry noticed Arya’s far-off look, he said, “She didn’t betray you, you know. She only wanted to see you happy.”

                Arya nodded again. “Of course I know that.” And Arya also knew that perhaps Myrcella was hoping for something else as well. During their sparse times together, the Princess would sing-song about how happy Arya would be when she married Gendry, and how adorable of a match it would be, and how it was so romantic of him to crown Arya as his Queen of Love and Beauty. Whenever Myrcella brought those thoughts up to Arya, she would shrug it off and try to change the subject, but Arya knew that Myrcella was already counting down the days for her brother’s marriage. Mayhaps Myrcella told Gendry about Arya’s wishes, hoping it would bring them closer together.

                “Even if you don’t enjoy King’s Landing, you must admit that Blackwater Bay is a lovely view.” Gendry smiled, smug with the thought of proving Arya wrong.

                “No.” Arya laughed at Gendry’s reaction. In fact, it wasn’t too bad, but there was no way she would admit that. “You have to see the Godswood up in the North. It is tenfold better.”

                “It’s a promise then.”

                “What?”

                “You will show me the Godswood.” Gendry said. Both of their horses stopped now. They were next to each other now, with Arya closer to the shore.

                “Oh.” Arya looked to the bay, away from Gendry. The sun was already setting and being sunken behind the horizon.  “Yeah, I guess.” After another few moments of awkward silence, Arya sighed. She might as well open up to him. She’s forced to lose her maidenhead to this man eventually anyways. “I hate it here.” She groaned, “I want to go back to Winterfell. I want to see my brothers. I want to visit the Godswood. I want to go home.” Perhaps the Prince thought she was a whiny prat, but she didn’t care.

                “Then let’s go.” He said as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Arya looked at him in confusion, but he already reared his horse and he was already on his way back to the Red Keep. “See if you can beat me, Arya Stark.” He challenged.

                Arya laughed at Gendry’s half-filled challenge. Easily enough, she was already ahead of him. She remembered the route they took to Blackwater Bay, and she, the Northerner, lead the Southern Prince back to his own caste. She circled around the stables and her mare pounded the dirt under her impatiently until Gendry finally arrived.

                “It seems that I have shamed my family name. I am no longer fit to be the heir to the Seven Kingdoms.” Gendry laughed out of breath. “A girl from Winterfell has out ridden me.”

                Arya stuck her tongue at him while she dismounted her mare. She then lead her to the stables, and unwillingly chained Nymeria again with Gendry following.

                “Come on, my family wants to dine with yours tonight.” Gendry nudged her. Arya groaned. She hated these dinners more than anything. The King would stare at her the entire night, and the Queen sent her even more vile expressions.

                “Fine, but I have to at least bathe first. My mother would send me to the Red Sea and back if she saw me arrive at the dinner like this.” Arya gestured at her windblown and dirtied hair and her trousers.

                “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll keep my parents and yours distracted so they wouldn’t notice your absence until later.”

* * *

 

                Arya dismissed her handmaidens after her bath was filled with the water. She stripped herself and stepped in with the steam dancing into the air.

                “Not yet, my lady. It is still hot.” One of her handmaidens warned her. Arya ignored the lady’s warnings and submerged herself further into the tub. The water was indeed warm, but not hot enough to scorch her skin. In fact, she preferred it to be even warmer. Nonetheless, Arya dipped her head into the bath and held her breath, thinking about everything that happened earlier. When the idea that she was growing closer to Gendry, and perhaps didn’t even hate him anymore, Arya snorted and floated back to air, sputtering water out of her mouth.

Remembering the dinner, she quickly washed the dirt out of her hair and stepped out of the tub while wrapping her body with one of the towels her handmaiden has set out for her earlier. While her hair dried, she tried to find the simplest dress she brought with her to King’s Landing and laced herself into an emerald green Northern styled dress, sure to keep her mother happy enough to not yell at her for being late. With her hair now partially dried, she quickly braided it out of her way and let it lay on top of her shoulder.

When she entered the dining hall, all eyes were on her. The Queen looked at her bitterly and shot daggers at Arya’s direction. The King leered at her and groped her with his eyes, and especially staring at her wet hair and how the felt dress especially draped over her figure, especially showing off that she indeed isn’t a girl, but a woman.  Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella smiled at Arya, happy to see her. Margaery looked up from her plate of food and smiled at Arya. Ned was almost humored by Arya’s late appearance, but Cat definitely wasn’t. Ser Jaime was humored as well as The Imp, each brothers of the Queen. Joffrey sneered at her and then returned to eating his food while sitting next to his older brother. Gendry’s blue eyes were shocked for a moment as they eyed her almost as scandalously as the King’s, but he quickly looked away. Arya bristled at that, but obviously because he even dared to look at her in the first place.

“Ah, there you are, my Lady.” The Imp said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Would you care to join us for supper?”

“I would be delighted, my Lord.” Arya replied in the same tone as she took the only empty seat; the one in between the Kingslayer and the Imp, across from the two young Prince and Princesses.

“You look beautiful as ever, Arya.” The King said heartily, with a goblet of wine in hand. This was perhaps the first time he has called her by her name, and not her aunt’s.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Arya murmured, but only because it was expected of her, and not because she actually was grateful for the King’s compliment.

“So, you are to marry my son!” The King laughed. “Are you ready to pleasure him? I am happy for him and yet quite jealous as well. The Northen wenches make love like no other.”

Upon his remark, the entire room went silent. Cat and Ned both put down their utensils and stared at the King open-mouthed. The Queen made more of a show slamming her utensils down. Gendry’s blue eyes were as wide as his plate in front of him, which he stared at as if he was ashamed of his father. Tommen didn’t get the hint and continued eating, unlike Myrcella who gasped. The Imp seemed unfazed by his good-brother’s remark, but the Kingslayer’s jaw was set in a straight line.

Arya herself was infuriated. Her hand gripped the knife she was readying to slice her pork, but now she was considering stabbing the King instead. _How dare he compare me to a damn tavern wench._ Arya growled in her mind. Before anyone else could speak, her words came out surprisingly more calm than she expected. “Of course, Your Grace. But I am no wench; I am the Northern Princess of Winterfell. Once, I heard some stable boys betting that I would be as fierce as a wolf when I was bedded. When the night comes, you can ask your son.”

“You wanton wolf!” Joffrey exclaimed, disgusted with Arya’s remark.

Cat choked on her food, and Ned looked as if he wanted to become invisible. The Imp laughed, but the King looked at Gendry with pure jealousy. He didn’t even have the graces to hide it.

“Oh sweet nephew, lighten up a bit. Lady Arya only answered your father’s question quite honestly.” The Imp laughed at Arya’s remark.  “Actually, I quite enjoy her.”

Arya smiled at the Imp, and the Kingslayer laughed along. She never knew that the Queen’s brothers would be so different from the Queen herself.

The rest of the night went on with the King sulking along with his goblet of wine. The Queen made an effort to stop the servants from refilling his cup, but the King only demanded more and more. Arya talked with the Queen’s brothers and her two young children happily, while Gendry joined in at times. Cat and Ned ate the rest of their meal in silence.

Before anyone could dismiss themselves, Gendry spoke to the entire room, “Father, I wish to visit Winterfell.”

 “I wish to visit too!” Myrcella practically bounced in her seat. “I’ve always dreamed of seeing the towers of Winterfell reach the clouds.”

“Me as well,” Tommen smiled.

“Oh please. Tommen, you are barely old enough to even go outside these castle walls.” Joffrey barked as if this conversation wasn’t even worth is time.

“I am sorry my sweetlings, but the North is too far.” Cersei’s words were strained, as if she was trying her best to stay calm.

“Please, mother. If I am to be the King of the Seven Kingdoms one day, I at least want to see what I shall govern.” Gendry said calmly while he tried to convince his mother.

“We would be honored to travel with your children on the Kingsroad, if you would so allow it, Your Grace.” Catelyn said, respecting the wishes of Cersei’s children.

“Ah, yes. If it is about their wellbeing you are afraid of, I shall accompany your children, my sweet sister.” The Imp offered with a shrug. “Mayhaps a visit to the North isn’t a bad idea. I’ve wanted to stretch my legs for quite a while.”

“Your children will be safe with me, Your Grace. I swear by the Old and the New.” Ned added soberly.

“Yes, go have fun.” King Robert said with a drunken wave of his hand. “Do as you please.”

* * *

 

And so it was arranged for Lady Margaery, Lady Arya, Princess Myrcella, Lord Tyrion Lannister, Prince Joffrey, and Prince Gendry to take off to the Kingsroad three days after. Ned and Cat couldn’t go after all, due to Ned’s newfound duties as the Hand. He took to himself in the Tower of the Hand, and Cat agreed to keep him company. Joffrey was forced to accompany them, upon the insisting words of his father. He insisted that Joffrey should accompany his elder brother along his journey, as any other righteous Prince would. Arya was surprised that Cersei was willing to let Joffrey, Gendry, and Myrcella go so far out of her sight with people she hardly trusted, but it was King Robert that made the final words to let them go. Gendry swore to protect his younger siblings along the trip, and Tyrion made an equal vow to watch over his family and Lady Margaery and Lady Arya. Cersei however did manage to keep Tommen, insisting that he was far too young to leave his mother’s side for so long.

“Goodbye, my sweet.” Cat and Ned both hugged Arya. As much as Arya wanted to return to Winterfell, knew she would miss her parents. But Arya Stark did not let herself cry, although she did not know when she would see her parents again, after however long. “Be safe. Know that we always love you. Give your brothers our love as well.”

“Of course,” Arya said. After Cat kissed her forehead and Ned ruffled her hair, she was sent off. She didn’t want to sit in the carriage next to Joffrey, and although she felt bad for leaving Myrcella and Margaery alone with him, she still didn’t want to be damned to hours alone with the wretched Prince. So, she chose to ride alongside Gendry and Tyrion and the rest of the guards and Bannermen sworn to protect them.


	6. Winter Rose

Within a month, the party arrived to the walls of Winterfell. Gendry Baratheon led the party and was in front of the entire line. Behind him were three Baratheon Bannermen. Behind the Heir and his Bannermen rode The Imp, Joffrey, and Arya Stark. Joffrey sneered at her when she rode horseback rather than ride in the carriage with Margaery and Myrcella, but Arya only ignored his remarks and mounted the horse anyways. Behind her padded Nymeria, and the Stark Bannermen all surrounded their Lady. Behind the horses was the carriage, which held the Princess and Margaery. Surrounding the carriage were Lannister Bannermen. In front of the walls was an equally large party to greet the travelers. Arya couldn’t hold in her excitement to finally have returned home. She rode faster and almost passed Gendry until he called for her and suggested they ride next to each other instead. Arya knew it was only for formalities, but she frowned when the Prince decided to finally utter a word to her.

Whilst travelling the Kingsroad, the Prince has taken it upon himself to hide in his tents with his makeshift council which included The Imp, and various Bannermen. Arya didn’t ignore the ravens which were constantly sent and received between stops either. The Prince probably, most likely, didn’t mean to ignore his Lady, but it still hurt Arya in some sorts.

As the travelers got even closer to the walls, civilians of the city started to line up along the trail. They each watched with wide eyes and their mouths open as the horses and carriages passed them by. Arya didn’t fail to notice the gasps when they notice how large Nymeria has grown. Nor did she not fail to notice the bats of eyelashes young ladies would send towards Gendry. Arya snorted, and Gendry looked up from the road and to her with curiosity. She only shrugged, and Gendry looked back towards the road. The Stark and Baratheon and Lannister Bannermen now raised their House flags higher above their heads as they neared the city.

The familiar air of home flew around Arya’s skin. It welcomed her and beckoned her closer and deeper into Winterfell. She welcomed the embrace and warmly greeted it like an old friend. Nymeria did the same, and even danced ahead of the party, racing towards the castle. Both the Northern Princess and her Wolf were home, where they belonged.

Now within the walls, Arya pulled on her horse’s reigns to stop. Gendry did the same, and they waited until the rest of the Lannister Bannermen trailed behind them and the carriage rolled to a stop. Following Gendry and The Imp’s lead, Arya dismounted her horse and placed her hands behind her back, awaiting the greeting. Her brothers found this profoundly amusing, and they couldn’t hide it from their faces despite the situation. Arya ended up smiling as well. Robb seemed the same as always; wearing his leather armour with his greatsword strapped to his belt and the fur cape draped around his shoulder. Next to him was Brandon Stark. Arya couldn’t believe how much he’s aged since her leave. He looked significantly taller now, and even wore armour similar to his elder brother. He even had a bow strapped around his shoulder and a sword around his waist. His Stark features beamed when he laid his eyes upon his sister. Next to Bran was Rickon Stark, the youngest of the pack. His sandy curled hair was as messy as ever acting like a mop on his head. Still training to become a knight like Bran, he wore weapons and armour as well. Greywind, Summer, and Shaggydog each stood behind their respective masters.

When Gendry faced her brothers, each Stark bowed their heads in respect.

“Your Grace,” Each brother greeted him. Arya watched in wonder, as it felt odd to her to see Gendry, who she treated with little to no respect, receive so much from her brothers.

“You may rise, Lords Stark.” Gendry nodded, and the Stark brothers each rose their heads. Gendry glanced behind him to look at Arya. He nodded, and she followed his lead.

“It is an honor to receive your company, Your Grace.” Robb said, still looking at Gendry. When he saw Arya, his voice was tinted with amusement. “And to you as well, Lady Stark.”

The two Stark children looked at each other for a while until Arya, ignoring all formalities, jumped into her brother’s welcoming arms. She could hear Gendry behind her chuckling, but she ignored him.

“Robb, I missed you.” She said when he finally put her down. He smiled, and then Bran and Rickon both engulfed her into a hug that almost crushed her bones. Her younger brothers were growing strong, she knew. “Goodness, you two have grown.” She said when she patted Bran and Rickon’s heads. They both pouted, as they hated when Arya still treated them as small children, but they all ended up laughing together. Nymeria tottered towards her brothers, and they each greeted each other as well. The wolves were reunited.

“Ahem,” A small voice cleared her throat. Each Stark looked from each other and then next to The Heir, which stood Margaery Stark. Her hands were held around her belly, and she had a smile on her face.

“I have missed you, my lady.” Robb said while his wife placed her dainty hand in his as she curtsied.

“As I have missed you, my lord.” Margaery recited.

Behind them, Tyrion was already leaving the circle of the royal party, muttering something about needing to “loosen up”. Baratheon Bannermen helped Princess Myrcella dismount the carriage. Her dress was golden with her house colors, and her hair styled like Arya’s, a simple braid. She as well made her way to the welcoming and curtsied in front of the Northern Lords.

“Your Grace,” The Stark boys recited. Robb still held his wife’s hand and Rickon dipped his head as usual, but Arya didn’t fail to notice the prolonged glances the Princess and Bran shared. She looked from her younger brother then to the Princess with utmost curiosity.

“My lords,” Princess Myrcella sang.

After the greetings and formalities, the party started to settle in and the Bannermen started their respective shifts. Robb and Margaery walked in the courtyard together, Bran insisted on offering the Princess a tour of Winterfell, and Rickon was sent with some guards to find Tyrion after his disappearance during the arrival. The sun was already beginning to set and for some odd reason, every handmaiden of the castle decided to attack Arya, and not the other ladies occupying Winterfell. As usual, they bathed her, and then scrubbed her skin dry of all the dirt and tear gained from her travels. Then they forced her into another dress, but Arya didn’t mind it as much as in King’s Landing. Here, she felt like she was home. When Arya was already dressed, Myrcella arrived in the room as well and the handmaidens then flocked to the Southern Princess. Minding herself, Arya tried to sneak out while the handmaidens bathed and swooned over the foreign Princess, and under Myrcella’s request, dressed her in a Northern gown like Arya’s. Arya, of course, was stopped by one of the handmaidens before she could sneak out, but Myrcella dismissed all of them as soon as she was fully laced up and dressed.

“They can be quite overwhelming,” Myrcella sighed as she sat down in front of the looking glass. She then glanced to the reflection behind her, where Arya Stark, the wolf Princess stood. Even before Arya arrived in King’s Landing, there were stories and tales of the wild girl. People gossiped that she went riding for fun, had a wolf as large as a bear as a pet, and wore trousers like a boy. Even scarcer whispers claimed that she was as wild as her fabled aunt. Myrcella never knew Lyanna Stark, as she was dead long before Myrcella was even born, but from what she hears, most of the gossip is true after all. Both princesses were as different as day and night, and yet Myrcella looked up to the Northern Princess like her own elder sister. After all, Arya would marry her brother soon enough and they would be real good-sisters then.

The way her heart was now, she didn’t have high doubts that she’d become sisters by a marriage of her own…

Although Arya would never admit it, she was indeed quite beautiful. In Myrcella’s eyes, she was like a northern goddess. Her beauty wasn’t like a traditional angel which most ladies of court strived to achieve. She wasn’t gorgeous like Sansa, or Margaery, or even Myrcella herself, but Arya had her own type of beauty. Her beauty was one that the traditional songs the Northern folk sang of. She was as beautiful as the winter’s rose.

“You are quite beautiful, Lady Arya.” Myrcella voiced her thoughts. Arya only laughed.

“Please, Myrcella. Your brother must have sulked day and night after her learned he was marrying Arya Horseface.” Arya scoffed as she stepped closer to the younger princess. “And it’s just Arya.”

“Don’t insult yourself.” Myrcella frowned. She would have argued with Arya more and insisted that she was indeed beautiful, but she knew that Arya would just shoot down the compliments. So instead, she breathed and looked into the looking glass. “Would you do my hair for me, Arya?”

Arya raised an eyebrow as she looked at Myrcella’s hair. The girl’s hair was longer than her own and as it was drying from her bath, it was already starting to curl like Cersei’s. “You should ask the handmaidens, not me. I’m completely horrid at stuff like this.”

“No, I like how your hair is styled.” Myrcella said. “Please oh please, Arya.”

Of course Arya was hesitant at first, but then gave in as Myrcella started to beg. So Arya combed the Princess’s tangled hair with much more pain than she expected, and then pinned half of it up, like how her own sister used to do. The style suited the Princess quite well, should Arya admit. When she was done, she did the same to her own hair. She never really liked the idea of doing each other’s hair and dressing, but Princess Myrcella proved not to be bad company. She didn’t sing songs of formalities like the other birds of King’s Landing, but instead spoke her mind around Arya. It reminded Arya a bit of Sansa, which made another unnecessary hole in her already disoriented heart.

_I need a drink,_ Arya decided.

* * *

 

As soon as Bran Stark laid eyes on her, he knew.

The Lord of Winterfell had his heart for the Princess of the South.

And the Welcoming Feast did not help his situation at all.

He loved the way her milky skin was perfectly soft and smooth as snow. He loved how her golden hair was perfectly curled at the ends and bounced with every step she took. He loved the way the corner of her eyes lifted whenever he made her laugh. He loved the way her teeth shown while he made her smile. He loved the way she could make him feel alive and at ease. He loved Princess Myrcella.

It’s strange how love works like that. How you can barely know a woman for even a day and you were already uncontrollably in love with her.

Yes, it was strange. Strange indeed.

So while his sister and his love descended the staircase which led to the feasting hall, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She smiled towards him, and he returned the smile. Arya shot him looks of amusement as if she was silently teasing him, being the elder sister watching her younger brother swoon over a girl, but he did his best to ignore them as he asked the Princess for a dance. She agreed, and so the young Lord and Princess danced together to the other occupants’ drunken voices attempting to sing and the instruments playing Fifty-Four Turns. It was a drinking song about  lords who took fifty-four turns of ale. Myrcella recognized it as one of her father’s favorite songs to be sung during feasts.

Everyone in the Feast was drunk, that was for sure. Women that attended squealed as a drunken man tried to get more than bargained. Robb Stark sat next to his pregnant lady wife, overlooking the Feast. A bearded smile played on his face. This was a Northern Feast, that was definite. _What a way to welcome his Southern Guests_ , he thought. His wife held his hand and they talked amongst each other of how the South was to her liking, and her uneventful journey on the Kingsroad.

Tyrion Lannister was somewhere lost in the crowd of Northerners. Rickon Stark has left the Feast long ago to continue his restless training for his Knighthood. Joffrey was sitting at the table with Robb Stark, staring bitterly at the entire scene. _Savages, the lot of them,_ he thought to himself. _Just like their damned Princess._

Gendry grew restless of sitting on the table where the rest of the nobles sat, so he got up in search of his “Lady”, to find her chugging down a rather full tankard of Dornish Wine. When her head rose from the wine, her eyes were glazed over and it took her a while to comprehend it was the Prince standing in front of her.

“It reminds you of another feast not so long ago doesn’t it?” Gendry mused, thinking of the feast thrown in honor of Lady Sansa and his uncle’s, Lord Renly’s wedding. A Cask of Ale was now sung by the occupants, another favorite of his father’s.

“Go away.” Arya grumbled. It was all too familiar for Gendry to fear now. So as usual, he came closer to her. Unlike other times though, she now immediately backed away and put her hand up. “I mean it, don’t come closer.” Apparently, the woman was sober enough to place her hand upon her thy, which without a doubt sheathed her dagger or even her sword. Who knew.

“Seven Hells,” Gendry muttered as he stepped back and put his hands up as if surrendering. “What’s wrong?”

“ _What’s wrong_?” Arya repeated as if amused he would dare to ask. “You ignored me the entire moon’s turn on the Kingsroad, while your own brother treated me like his little toy. You didn’t even try to do anything, Gendry.” Arya wasn’t shouting, but the venom in her words seemed to strike Gendry. She meant for it to hurt, anyways. _I thought… I thought you wanted to become closer,_ she wanted to say, but bit her lips before any more words could escape.

In all the men in her life, they all either teased her, or ran away in fear. Not that she minded, most of the time. She was the one usually to cause most of the scenes of them running away, but Gendry was the first one to find her ways to his own amusement. He was the first one to want to become closer. He was the first one that cared for her after Jon left. _Jon._ The name in her mind itself sent an uneasy shiver to her core with the absence of her half-brother. She instantly flipped the tankard back to her lips, downing every last drop.

Gendry sobered quickly, and his face was back to the serious one he always wore on the Kingsroad. Arya knew it as the mask he wore while he had to be Gendry Baratheron, the Heir of the Seven Kingdoms, and not… _Gendry_.

“Look Arya, this isn’t the place or the time.” Gendry tried to reason with her.                   

“You had the entire moon’s turn.”

“Arya,” Gendry now placed his hand on her wrist before she could walk away. “I want to tell you, I do. Just...not tonight,”

Arya flung her wrist away from the Prince’s grasp and stomped away from him. Somewhere deep in her heart she knew he didn’t deserve such treatment, but it still felt satisfying.

* * *

 

The next morning came faster than intended. As the moon set and the sun rose, the castle was already cleaning up the mess from the Welcoming Feast the night before. Only Myrcella was present at the feasting table for breakfast while around her the mess from the Feast was already partially cleaned. Bran was already practicing his marksmanship by the time she was awake, Tyrion has been in the whorehouse, Margaery and Robb were busy in the court session while Joffrey attended, Arya has been in the practicing field since dawn, and Gendry has been out of his chambers earlier since.

“You know,” Arya looked up from where she was swinging her sword madly to see her youngest brother watching her from a distance. “You have killed the air long ago, Arya.”

“Rickon,” Arya sighed and paused to catch her breath. Rickon was leaning against the nearby wall with his sandy curled hair still disheveled on his head. Summer instantly went to his sister, Nymeria. While growing up in Winterfell, she was never close to Rickon as he was too young, but now he wasn’t so far off. “Shouldn’t you be training with Bran?”

“I was training last night,” Bran shrugged and then glanced around the otherwise empty practice field. “Where is the Prince?” The day the raven arrived to Winterfell relaying the message that Arya was now promised to the Heir of the Seven Kingdoms, all brothers present held their breath in shock and disbelief. Now, Rickon was purely curious of their relationship.

“Not here,” Arya’s attitude returned as she continued to dance and slash at the air.

“I saw him at the forge helping Mikken this morning, but I thought he would be here with you by now.”

“Why in the Seven Hells was he in the forge?” Arya demanded.

“I didn’t ask.” Rickon shrugged. Arya continued to slash at the air. “You should go see him, though. He seemed in a bad mood as well.”

“Why would that make me want to see him?”

“Well, you two are promised, aren’t you?” Arya instantly stopped her maneuver and glanced toward her brother. Despite Rickon’s age, he was still the shyest and the most innocent and honest of the Stark children. _He was like Ned_. “Shouldn’t you try to become closer?”

“It isn’t that simple, Rickon.”

“All I’m suggesting is you go see him. If you want, go talk to him, but at least stop by.” Rickon suggested. Arya grunted, but agreed for the sake of her brother. They sparred a few times, but Arya always won. After both children were both worn out, and all the lost times were made for, Rickon dismissed himself to go check if Bran was still practicing his marksmanship, running off while Summer padded close behind. Arya smiled as she watched her youngest brother. She then decided it was far past the time to follow his advice. He wanted to talk, after all. Maybe it really was her that was being the stubborn one.

As she walked across the courtyard, the familiar feeling of being home seeped into her bones and instantly lightened her mood. She never did realize how homesick she was until she truly returned. When she arrived at the stables, she could already hear the sound of the anvil and the steel singing. It reminded her of some days when she was a young girl and she would find Jon helping Mikken in the forge. Instead when she stepped behind the stables and to the forge, she didn’t find her half-brother. Instead, she found a half naked man pounding a hammer against a glowing sword. Sparks flew off the steel, and he dipped the sword back into the water. The sizzle and pop was soothing to his ears, and it seemed to calm him as he continued to work on his labor.

Arya’s eyes widened a little. His muscles on his back as he turned was outlined, and the veins seemed to pop a little from his muscled arms. She could see the beads of sweat dripping down his skin, and his hair was in a mess above his head. He didn’t look like Gendry Baratheon at all. Now, he looked like Gendry. And that’s how she liked him.

Gendry picked up the sword from the water and began to swing it around, testing its balance. Arya frowned and cleared her throat.

“You should stand sideface.”

Gendry instantly turned and pointed the sword at the intruder. She knew he was trained since birth in the art of sword fighting, but there were still a few mistakes. When he realized it was her, he put his arm down. “ _What?_ ”

“Sideface,” Arya shrugged. “It makes for a smaller target.”

Gendry glanced around and then looked back to Arya. “Am I fighting anyone?”

“No,” Arya instantly replied, and the venom from the previous night seeped into her voice, “but you’re practicing for one.”

Gendry’s expression softened when he realized Arya’s true reason for her visit. He sighed and went to the bucket of clean water which he kept next to him and dipped his hair in, attempting to clean it as much as possible. He put the sword back down next to the forge, and then dressed himself in the cotton shirt he was wearing before. On top of that he strapped on the leather tunic gifted to him on his arrival. Arya watched this all, waiting for him to say something.

“Is there some place we can talk?”

“We’re talking right now,” Arya shrugged as she pointed to the forge.

“The walls have ears, Arya.” Gendry whispered. Arya would have insisted there were no spies in Winterfell, but with the visitors from the South, she wasn’t quite sure of anything anymore.

“The Godswood,” She nodded. No, there wouldn’t be any spies there. It was holy ground. Who would disrespect holy ground of the North? Gendry nodded as well, and she leaded him towards the stables. They each mounted a horse and trotted to the Godswood in silence. When they arrived in the forest, the Southern Prince looked around him in amazement. The soil instantly became soft and supple under his feet, and the leaves were of the richest emeralds. Somehow, the sky above them instantly turned to the most innocent of blues, and the lake was as clear as crystals. Arya walked to the Heart Tree and sat down at the hem of the lake. Nymeria was behind her, and also sat down as Arya pet her fur. The Heart Tree’s trunk was as white as snow, with leaves as red and pink as flowers in the South. A face seemed to be carved in the knots of the trunk, but Gendry decided it was his imagination. He too sat by the lake and next to Arya.

As Arya dipped her hand into the pond, ripples bounded off her touch, and she picked up a floating blue winter rose. She cupped it in her hand and held it there, waiting for Gendry to speak.

“While we were on the Kingsroad, you must have noticed the ravens flying to and from each night we camped.” Gendry spoke slowly, and Arya nodded, still holding the frosty blue rose in her palm. “My father has heard word of rumours of the Targaryens across the Narrow Sea. They say she has dragons.”

The winter rose in Arya’s hand seemed to wither away.

“That’s impossible. The last of the dragons died long ago, you showed me their bones.” Arya insisted. “They’re only rumours.” But she knew that rumours always sprung from some truth of sorts. But she didn’t want to believe a word of it. If it was true that the dragons were returning, they would lay waste to all of the Seven Kingdoms, laying each noble house to ashes and claiming the Iron Throne. Hell would be unleashed.

“My father wanted to send a party and assist them across the Narrow Sea to find and kill them himself, but the Hand, your father, insisted it was only rumours.”

The King’s suggestion was worth a thought, but it was impossible to cross the Narrow Sea and search all the lands for but two people.

“If the Seven Kingdoms would unite in war against dragons, would the dragons win?” Arya’s voice was but a whisper now. The winter rose has drowned in the pond.

“They’ve done it before.” Gendry looked down at the pond, not wanting to see Arya’s desperation. Arya lay her head on his shoulder now, both looking at the pond. “They could come to Westeros tomorrow, next moon turn, next year… who knows, Arya?” Arya knew that the King was too fat, too drunk, and too old for war. They would send Gendry off instead. He would be killed and burnt to ashes. Her brothers would all die. Her father would die. Winterfell would be burnt to the ground. War would break loose and cause an unstated frenzy across all the lands. Her father already knew war once, he needn’t know it again.

“They are only rumours,” Arya whispered.

“Yeah,” Gendry agreed. He liked that better. 


	7. Three Ravens

As the frost melted off the tips of the trees and the butterflies started flying again and the winter roses started to shrivel, the Queen in the North's babe was born. All of Winterfell rejoiced as the announcement of their new Princess came to their ears. The babe's face was small, with blue eyes and a tuft of curled tawny hair. She had a small nose and thin lips for a babe, and her skin was white as milk and cream. The Queen and King in the North named their child Jessamine, and the Northerners danced and cheered to Jessamine, their new Princess in the North.

The guests from the South have stayed in Winterfell for more than a moon's turn now, and it was evident they would be summoned to their own city anytime soon. The Heir spent his days either attending court, in the blacksmith, in the practice field helping the Lords of Winterfell train, or with his own promised Lady. It wasn't a secret that Arya and Gendry have grown closer than when they arrived. Few whispers and words of gossip seemed to spread from lips of those who witnessed their affections; words of either disbelief that their Lady has grown fondly to the Prince, or that she was already no longer a maiden. If Arya ever heard those words herself, she'd only laugh at how oblivious they were. Truthfully, the only time they spent together was in the Godswood during bleak moments of the day, watching the ice slowly melt as winter seemed to end and summer was born.

He would tell her stories of growing up in King's Landing with his brothers and sister, and of how Joffrey was a prick since birth. Arya would laugh, and she'd tell him of how she and her sister would fight and argue of stupid matters, and not stand down until their mother was forced to step in. Then he told her of life in King's Landing. Then she told him the story of when her father found her first sword. Then he reminded her that ladies don't swordfight. She called him an idiot prince, and he called her his lady.

A raven was sent to the Capitol with word of Jessamine's arrival, and a week's time later, two ravens returned. One was from the Hand of the King, Eddard Stark. He wrote of his and Catelyn's happiness and joy with the knowledge that their grandchild was born as a healthy babe. The second letter was written from the King himself, with summons to his city for the wedding of his son to the Hand's youngest daughter. When Robb told his sister, his eyes were wide with shock and equal disbelief.

"No, that's not true." Arya shook her head as she paced back and forth in her chambers. "No, they said they would give me… give us time. They said we would wait."

"Arya…"

"No, I can't get married! " Arya's head was spinning. "No, not now! I have to stay  _here_  at Winterfell, with you and Bran and Rickon! I can't just  _leave_. No, I still have to visit Jon… I still have to perfect my water dance, I still have to travel Westeros and across the Narrow Sea and back… and live, Robb!"

"Arya, marriage isn't like that. You're not caged."

Arya shook her head again. It felt as if spiders of ice were crawling on her skin, and she could almost hear roaring through her ears. "You're the future Lord of Winterfell. Nobody could cage you."

"Arya, you would've had to marry one day. You can't just live like this. This is the best match you'll get; you already know him, you're already  _close_  to him. When I married, I barely even knew Margaery, only her name and that our families would benefit from our marriage." Arya could hear her brother's temper starting to rise with his sister's childish acts, but she only frowned again and her eyes were of utter loss and despair.

"They're going to make me  _Queen_ , Robb." She paused now, and her brother was silent. "This is Sansa's dream, not mine. She's always dreamt of being Queen and marrying a prince like in her songs. I… I'm not meant to be… to be  _Queen_!"

"The Queen… Cersei wouldn't step down so soon, Arya." Robb's voice was sober, and his gaze was to the floor. "You'd still have time."

Silence fell upon the room.

"Wolves don’t survive in the South." Her voice was barely a whisper, but Robb heard her words. She belonged in Winterfell, with the snow on the tips of her hair and her wolf by her foot. She did not belong in King’s Landing. She was not supposed to be the future Queen. "You won’t be a wolf, you’ll be a stag."

* * *

 

"You'll be leaving soon." Bran spoke to her in soft gentle words.

"Yes, I know." They both gazed from the tower and to the never-ending skies around them. The last of the winter wind sent a chill through the Princess's bones, and she shivered. Both the Lord and the Princess were silent now, only listening to the soft song of the wind and the low voice of Summer in his slumber.

"Will my sister be happy?"

"I think so. Lady Arya seems to enjoy my brother's company. I'll be with her as well." Myrcella continued to gaze out from the tower's window. She liked to spend her days in the tallest tower, and it was routine now for him to climb up to meet her. The first few days they only talked and she would applaud his bravery and skill of climbing, and he would act humble and shy. The next week's worth they only talked until, the Princess acted on impulse and kissed the Lord of the North. He held her close, and she welcomed his embrace. Every night would usually end at that, but now they sat at a distance apart, with Myrcella by the edge of the window and Bran leaning on the wall.

They were silent again, and even the wind seemed to stop dancing. Summer perked his ears up with the sudden change of environment, but paid no mind and returned to sleep.

Myrcella's shoulders were shaking now, and the silence was broken as she whimpered and hastily wiped tears away before they could drop from her eyes.

"Cella…"

The Princess's cries of despair only continued and grew.

A third raven arrived at the castle that morning, one addressed to the Princess herself. The Queen in the North smiled as she handed it to her, and acted as if it was something of great prosperity and joy. With a final smile for good luck, the Queen departed from Myrcella's chambers and danced away to her own child. As soon as Margaery left her room, Myrcella tore open the letter to read of her father's summons to her for the announcement of her betrothal to Lord Trystane Martell. Tucking the letter in her sleeve, she ran to the towers. When Bran found her, all she had to do was hand him the note from the South.

"Your mother wouldn't let you marry. She treasures you far too much to let you go."

"I am nearly five-and-ten. Lord Varys and Lord Baelish along with my father might have finally forced her to give me up. Maybe even my uncle was involved in this as well."

"I'll go with you." Bran's words were filled with hope, but Myrcella shook her head.

"It's only going to delay the inevitable."

"Arya is the bride, and I should be going anyways. It's my sister's wedding." He sat next to her now, and they both looked out from the tower's window. "Everything will be okay."

"And if it won't?"

"Then we'll find a way."

* * *

As the time for the party's departure grew closer, word of a deserter came to the castle. Robb was sent for the execution, and Bran and Rickon obediently accompanied him. Gendry followed as well, as he saw it was appropriate. The man had wiry brown hair and accumulated dirt on his face. His eyes constantly darted around him, as if expecting something to jump at him any second. When Robb reminded him of his Oath he took in the Night's Watch, the man nodded solemnly.

"I know I'm a deserter. I should have gone back to the Wall and warned 'em but… I saw what I saw. I saw White Walkers." His voice was bleak, and only the howl of the wind and the flapping of the Stark banners were heard as the man paused. Each Northern Man looked to each other with wide eyes. "If you can get word to my family… tell them I'm a coward. Tell them I'm sorry."

Robb hesitated for the slightest second before nodding towards the men behind him, signaling for them to bring him down to the block. The deserter didn't struggle, but willingly let them grab his shoulders and push his head down into the little notch. With Ice, Robb bowed his head and recited his oath. When it was finished, Ice was brought down and the man's head dropped to the grass.

* * *

"My brother is looking for you." Joffrey leaned against the barn fence, where he woke his uncle of his slumber. "We leave for King's Landing today."

Tyrion yawned and stretched his arms before getting up and pointing to Joffrey. "Before you go, you will call on Lord and Lady Stark and offer your congratulations."

"What good are my ' _congratulations_ ' to them?" Joffrey scoffed as his uncle pushed him aside from the fence so he could start walking towards the castle.

"Nothing," Tyrion yawned again, "but it is expected of you. Your absence has already been noted."

"Their child means nothing to me." Joffrey shrugged while placing a hand on his sword. "And besides, I can't stand the wailing of babies-"

Before another sound could be muttered from his mouth, Tyrion's hand met his nephew's cheek in a sharp slap. The sound resonated through the field, and Joffrey screamed.

"One word and I hit you again."

"When we return, I'm telling-" Tyrion was practically laughing now as he slapped his nephew again. Joffrey screamed again and rubbed his cheek in pain. "You can't-" Another slap hit the prince's cheek.

"Now  _go_!" Tyrion ordered his nephew. Joffrey glared a thousand swords at his uncle, but the Imp simply did not flinch. He stood as tall as any other man, and as brave as a true lion.

With a final groan of disgust, Joffrey stomped away from his uncle and to Robb and Margaery Stark.

* * *

With a string of goodbyes and prayers for luck, Myrcella Baratheon, the two Lords and the Lady of Winterfell, Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, and the Heir to the Iron Throne were on the Kingsroad for the marriage of Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon. The journey to King's Landing was even more tiresome than to Winterfell, with the heat of the impending summer on their shoulders, yet without Margaery stopping the party every hour or so, they made it to the city in due time.

Arya sat alone now, next to Nymeria. She was in her designated tent for the night, and she was already in her night slip with her hair pleated on her shoulder. They have been travelling for almost a moon's turn, and were expected to arrive the following morning. Her heart beat unsteadily, and her mind was swimming for some escape.

They can't force her to marry… her father certainly wouldn't let them, would he? There were so many things wrong with the betrothal. She thought of Gendry as a friend, maybe even a brother. Now he was going to be her husband, her lover even. It was an impossible thought, but it still made her heart flutter the slightest. From the anxiety, of course. She shouldn't even be betrothed at all. This is all the King's fault. Arya started to curse the King in her head.

"May I come in?" Arya's thoughts were interrupted when she heard Gendry's voice from outside her tent. It was the exact voice she dreaded to hear.

"Suit yourself." Arya didn't move her head up from her knees when the Prince entered her tent. His leather armor was removed, and now he wore his tunic and cloak. He sat down next to Arya, and neither of them dared to speak to each other until Gendry was fed up.

"I see you've been avoiding me." He said. Arya didn't reply because it was true. Every chance that he had to be with her, she'd always claim she's busy, or run off to her tent saying she was too tired. "We should be arriving tomorrow."

"I know," Arya said. She still didn't dare to look at Gendry. She felt betrayed. She knew it wasn't exclusively his fault, but her walls were already built. "Do you know when the wedding will be?"

"I'll try to ask my father to postpone it… if you wish." Gendry looked at her again. She still didn't raise her head, but she could still define his tone. Now, he was speaking to her as Prince Gendry Baratheon, the Heir to the Iron Throne, her betrothed. He wasn't speaking to her as just  _Gendry,_  her friend. He was doing her what he thought as liberties, his "duty".

"Do you think he would if you ask?" Arya questioned.

"I'm not sure." Something in Gendry seemed to deflate upon Arya's answer, and his gaze finally flicked away from her, and to the tent's entrance. "But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh sorry for the wait!  
> I added the canon scenes from the show just to signify what part we'd be at in the show kind of. This AU's timeline is confusing if you try to align it with the show's given their diferent ages, but this is just the general idea. Also, since Bran and Myrcella's actors are quite young and if you can't exactly imagine them as having a "forbidden love" of that sort if you're that poetic, then just imagine them as Holliday Grainger as Lucrezia Borgia in the Borgias, maybe in the first season or a tad younger. And Bran as Luke Brandon when he was in Ella Enchanted. These might be a bit off from your imagination, but these are my headcanons.  
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter :)


	8. Seven Devils

                They arrived in King’s Landing the next evening. Arya and Bran were welcomed in a warm hug with her father and mother. Arya pretended like she didn’t notice that Ned’s beard grew longer than ever, and he seemed frailer than last she saw him, despite their time apart only being a few moon turns. She could even spot some grey strands in his hair, along with her mother. Under Ned’s advice not to throw a feast upon the party’s safe return, Robert grudgingly accepted, but only with a promise for his son’s and Arya’s wedding to be even more lavish to make up for it. With that the Starks supped in peace in the Tower of the Hand. Ned and Cat made Arya and Bran tell them stories of Jessamine, their new granddaughter. All Arya could tell them was of how chubby she was and how loud she cried, like all other babes.

          “Can you believe it, my love? Soon, we will be having even more grandchildren, with Arya’s impending marriage, and Sansa’s blessed one.” Cat smiled lovingly and locked eyes with her husband. Arya’s stomach sunk, thinking of Sansa’s cursed marriage, and her own betrothal at the King’s command. Ned smiled back at his wife, but noticed Arya’s frown.

          “There is not a date set yet, you know.” Ned addressed his youngest daughter. She has surely grown since the last he’s seen her, and it made him nostalgic of when she was a tiny little girl running wild in the stables with her hair tangled and mud on the hem of her trousers. Now, she was still wild, but she was a woman grown. Any man that could steal a glance at her would know that, with her lean yet agile figure and beautiful Northern features. “I could tell the King to wait.”

          “You could do that?” Arya looked up to her father with hope gleaming in her eyes. It was Catelyn’s turn to set her lips to a thin line and look down at her food.

          “Of course, my sweetling. I would never let anyone force you do something you would not wish to do.”

          Arya didn’t think she loved Ned Stark more than that moment. She leaped from her chair and kissed his cheek.

* * *

 

          It took many days of convincing from both Ned and his own son for Robert to grudgingly agree to delay the Royal Wedding, but Ned warned Arya that this would be the last time Robert would delay the marriage. Arya nodded, accepting that next time, she would have to withstand and undergo what had to be done. And so they all waited, until a few weeks after, when Robert demanded that it was high time for his eldest son to marry, and the date was set for three weeks later, but only for the lavish preparations to be made. Arya almost wanted to beg for the wedding to be delayed again, but her mother’s words from so long ago rang in her ears. _No one denies the King._

Not long after the wedding’s date was announced, Sansa arrived with her husband at the Red Keep, just in time for Arya’s nameday. Sansa seemed thinner than before, and if it was possible, all the life and happiness from Sansa’s beautiful Tully hair and eyes seemed to vanish. Sansa’s beauty was now more tempting and seductive than before, rather than innocent and young. Sansa was a married woman, but when Arya stood next to her once again Arya felt like a young girl in Winterfell. Renly grew a beard as well, but the charisma and youth seemed to escape him.

          Robert almost forced Ned to throw Arya a feast and a tourney in honor of her nameday, insisting that it was almost offensive _not_ to celebrate the nameday of a future princess, and his future good daughter. However, Ned brushed aside the request, knowing that that would have been the last thing Arya would want to do on her nameday in King’s Landing. Robert again, only huffed and buried his disagreement in drinks.

          For her nameday although no feast was thrown, Cat ordered a bath to be put together, and the handmaidens scrubbed her skin dry until all that was left was bone. Then they placed roses in the bath and left Arya privacy for her to relax. After she was done, they massaged oil in her hair and crammed her into a southern dress, beautiful and custom made for the future princess’s nameday with the expectations of a celebration. Arya almost refused her mother’s entire idea of pampering, but Cat forced her, saying that it was the least she could do in substitution for a feast. Arya decided she would much rather do this which would only last an hour at most, than waste an entire evening at a boring feast.

          The Baratheons dined with the Hand’s family that night. Bran made a jape about her dress and her makeup. Arya slammed his foot under the table and Cat gave them both a glare that even the most fearsome of wolves would cower under. Sansa blushed and was embarrassed that her siblings acted so childish even at a mature age, but she giggled, happy to be reunited with her family. Gendry sat next to Arya, and he tried to hide his amusement as well, but was failing terribly. The only time he and Arya spent together since they’ve returned to the capitol was when the King would order for the Starks to dine with them. He pretended not to notice how Arya was trying to avoid him, and he tried to pretend like it didn’t bother him. The supper finished with surprisingly fewer mishaps than expected. After everyone has finished eating, Arya quickly excused herself and escorted herself to the Red Keep’s lower courtyard, swinging Needle about, practicing her water dance. It seemed to calm her down and relax her.

                “I know you’re here.” She said, not bothering to look behind her. She’s already grown all accustomed to the feeling of being watched by those deep blue eyes. She remained in her water dancing stance and moved to the next pose, feet apart, sideface, and eyes locked on her imaginary target.

          “Don’t think I didn’t notice your sudden absence from your own nameday supper.” Gendry sat in front of her. His eyes studied hers, and she decided to change her target to him.

          “Yes, what about it?” Arya snapped. After the words escaped her lips, she almost wished she hadn’t said it so angrily, as if to push him away even more now. But her words didn’t seem to wound him much. He only looked down for a second, and then regained his composure.

          “Do you want to go riding with me?” He asked her. His question almost threw her off guard. She stopped practicing her water dance and almost laughed.

          “I’ve been practically running away from you for the past moonturn, and now you want me to go _riding_ with you?” Her words would’ve sounded offensive from any other woman’s lips, but from her it was only a jape.

          “I’ll go ready the horses.” He flashed her that smile that she’s always hated, and they both laughed together.

* * *

 

          After they arrived at Blackwater Bay, Gendry unraveled a blanket he packed under his horse’s saddle, and hid something else he packed under the corner of the blanket. They both sat down together, talking and laughing like old friends as if they weren’t to be married in three week’s time. He later presented her with the gift he hid under the blanket. He unsheathed a small yet deadly sharp curved dagger form its scabbard and handed it to Arya. She was amazed by the gift, but claimed he shouldn’t have given her anything.

          “Of course I had to give you something, do you think me as stupid as my brother?” He laughed.

          “Sometimes even worse,”

          “You shouldn’t insult people who are bigger than you.”

          “Then I wouldn’t be able to insult anyone.” She grinned as she tested the weight of the weapon in her hand. It was much handier than the one she already carried with her, and much more sharp and refined. She then noticed an intricate direwolf sigil etched into the silver blade. “It’s beautiful… who forged it? Surely no one in Winterfell, I don’t know of a blacksmith this skilled, and no blacksmith in King’s Landing would make a dagger with the Stark sigil.”

          “I did,” He shrugged. She looked from the dagger then to him, not believing her ears. She knew that during their time in Winterfell sometimes Gendry would spend his time in the forge with Mikken, but she didn’t know he was as skilled as this.

          “I didn’t know you were this good,” She said.

          “Is Arya Stark _complimenting_ me?” He japed, clutching at his heart as if he was hearing something as crazy as a dragon singing him a song. Arya stuck her tongue out at him, and they both laughed. After their laughter faded, Gendry frowned and looked at Arya. “I wish I knew you before my father announced the betrothal.”

          “What?” She put the dagger on his lap, perplexed by his change of subject. She looked up, and his blue Baratheon eyes caught in her Stark grey eyes, neither one daring to look away.

          “I feel maybe you would be happier about our marriage if I would have had more time to know you before so.”

          Arya frowned. She had not known him for so long and most royals were betrothed since childhood, granting time for the two children to know each other until the girl flowered and their marriage was arranged. She would rather believe that they were close friends under the small time they were granted together, but they were expected to be so much more in only a few week’s time. She couldn’t imagine lying in a bed with him when she thought of him as a friend, or rather as a brother.

          He moved closer to her and placed his hand atop hers. Their eyes locked again, and her stomach started to feel uneasy. Was she trying to deny her affections toward him, covering it up with the lie that she thought of him as a brother rather than a betrothed? Or was she simply so against the marriage because she would rather not be married at all? She knew she felt something towards Gendry, but part of her wished she didn’t. Part of her wished she could stay as a wild and free little girl living in Winterfell with her brothers forever. She didn’t and never wanted to be Queen, but she didn’t know what she wanted anymore. All she knew at that moment was that she wanted to stay with Gendry. “I wish we did as well.” She finally agreed after a lifetime of silence. Her voice was soft, but it told Gendry all he needed to know.

          He kissed her then. It was a sweet and short kiss, and the experience was different than what she would’ve imagined. Gendry remained chivalrous and pulled away to make it remain as an innocent kiss, but she pulled him closer to her, placing her hands behind his neck and keeping him locked by her.

          She decided then that there was one thing she was certain of. She wanted Gendry by her side in whatever future she would have. Mayhaps marrying him wasn’t as bad as she would have thought it to be.

* * *

 

          The next morning, Sansa and Catelyn sat with Arya and helped the seamstress get the correct measurements for the wedding dress. After a long morning of being forced to stand as straight as a spear, Arya was finally allowed to relax. Cat left to help the seamstress pick the correct fabric, and Sansa returned to her and Renly’s temporary solar. Arya left to find Gendry, but before she could get far, a pretty handmaiden with large dark eyes and curly black hair found Arya and told her that Sansa requested her presence in her solar.

          Arya frowned as she remembered the state she and Sansa last departed on, and the state of Sansa’s cursed marriage. Sansa had been mostly silent ever since she’d arrived, and only minded to herself. The handmaiden lead her down the hall and to Sansa’s solar. She knocked on the door, and her sister’s perfect soft voice sang from the other side, welcoming her in. She stood and dismissed the handmaiden she called Shae, and invited Arya to sit next to her. Sansa wore a beautiful emerald green dress, which seemed to make her hair look alive again, and her blue eyes glowing once more.

          “Would you like a lemon cake?” Sansa offered a small yellow square to Arya, and she hungrily took one.

          “You asked the cooks to make you lemon cakes?” Arya laughed. She knew her sister loved lemon cakes, but she didn’t expect her to ask for them to be specially made and delivered to her solar.

          “No, Renly did.” She frowned and put her half eaten slice of lemon cake back on the table in front of her.

          Arya frowned as well, and felt like lemon cakes weren’t the best decision for food for this particular visit. “How is life in Storm’s End?”

          Sansa looked down to her skirts, her happiness from moments before gone. “Mother and father have already asked me that so many times, and you heard my answer.”

          Yes, she heard Sansa sing them the songs of how Storm’s End was beautiful and how life was as perfect as she’d imagined as a young girl; being the wife of a Lord, and ruling the land by his side. “I heard your answer, but I don’t believe the lies.”

          “Arya…” Sansa’s voice faltered, not knowing what to say next, “there is something you must know about my husband.”

          “I already know.” Arya interrupted before Sansa could continue. She knew that her sister already felt humiliated as it was, and she needn’t say it out loud. Sansa only nodded shortly, not wanting to know how or how long her husband’s secret was under Arya’s knowledge.

          “We… I…” Sansa cleared her throat, and spoke softly. “On our wedding night, when our bedding was called… we were never bedded.”

          Arya’s eyes widened, and she would’ve gasped if that hadn’t already been a guess. She knew of Renly, but their beddings were checked the next morning with a stain. Sansa and Renly lied to the King himself, and to the entire Court. She didn’t believe her sister could do that.

          “When he entered the chambers, he told me of why he couldn’t bed me... he stood in the corner while I cried to myself. I knew that the rest of my life I was doomed to a marriage without love… without children… but I knew what I had to do. I took the knife off the platter meant for cheese and cut myself on my hand. I diluted some of my blood with wine, and put some on the sheets. I left Renly to himself, then we both slept on the bed, but as far away from each other as we could be.” Sansa looked up from her skirts and to Arya. Tears fell from her Tully eyes and down her porcelain cheeks. “Arya… I hear what the people of Storm’s End say about me. They think… they think I’m barren… that I cannot conceive a child, that I will leave Storm’s End without an heir.”

          Sansa was sobbing now, shivering with fear and sadness. Arya got up from her seat and hugged her sister, trying to comfort her. She and Sansa were never the closest, and Arya was never good at comforting people, but she managed to soothe her sister. After her main sobs seemed to stop, Arya handed her a lemon cake. Sansa smiled at Arya’s attempt to calm her sister, and hiccupped as she blinked away the last tears. Sometimes Arya forgot that she and her sister were full and grown.

          “You will give Storm’s End an heir, Sansa.” Arya promised her.

          “How? It’s impossible. I’ve tried to lay with him before, but he isn’t able to.” Sansa frowned and looked helpless as if she blamed herself.

          “We’ll find a way.”

* * *

 

          “Come here, my sweetling.” His mother’s voice called to him from her solar. He sat next to her and she put her hand atop his. “Tell me of your journey to the North.”

          “It was terrible. The Starks were savages. The Stark girl, the one my brother is to marry, she’s the worst. She had her hands all over me like the wanton wolf she is, and she’s as wild as a horse.” Joffrey spat as he spoke of the Starks. Cersei frowned and straightened in her chair, her golden hair shining in the sunlight which filtered through the solar.

          “You have to be nice to her.” She sighed, crossing her legs and taking her hand away from him.

          “I don’t want to-”

          “No, but you will. If everything goes as your father has ordered, she will be your good sister… and the future Queen.” Cersei frowned and cleared her throat. “The occasional kindness will spare you trouble down the road.”

          Joffrey got up from his chair and crossed his arms across his chest in defiance. “We allow the northerners too much power. They consider themselves our equals.”

          “How would you handle them?” Cersei asked, purely curious of her son’s plans.

          “I’d double their taxes and command them to supply 10,000 men to the Royal Army.”

          “The _Royal_ Army?”

          “Why should every Lord command his own men? It’s primitive, no better than the hillsides.” Joffrey spoke as if the Laws of the Seven Kingdoms were foolish. “We should have a standing army of men loyal to the Crown trained by experienced soldiers instead of a mob of peasants who’ve never held pikes in their lives.”

          “And if the Northerners rebel?”

          “I’d crush them.” He nodded, and his words echoed throughout her empty solar as if it was a vow.

          “The North cannot be held, not by an Outsider. It’s too big, too wild. When the Winter comes, the Seven Gods together cannot save you or your Royal Army. You need to know when to save your strength…” Cersei got up from her chair as well and stepped towards her son. “and when to destroy his enemies.”

          “So you agree? The Starks are enemies?”

          Cersei held his hand in hers and looked into the eyes of the product of her and her brother’s love. “Anyone who isn’t us is an enemy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry for the delay and leaving this fic for four months! I hope this long(er than usual) chapter makes up for it. I hope to return to this fic updating regularly as usual. Just know that I will never abandon this fic, I might just take breaks, but now I'm back and hope to write better than before. Thank you for sticking through the wait, please tell me what you think! :)


	9. The Gold Wedding

It took a while before the proper arrangements were made, and the three weeks before the wedding had felt more like three moon turns. Arya wished the ordeal of it all wouldn’t be so flamboyant or grand, but she knew that the king demanded such qualities for his eldest son’s wedding; the wedding for the future king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The thought of it made Arya want to escape it all, but Gendry assured her that it would be alright.

          “Could you imagine me as queen?” Arya laughed while she stroked some of Nymeria’s grey fur. The large golden eyed direwolf slumbered next to her master. Arya and Gendry often spent their time together riding to Blackwater Bay, and with a few days left to the wedding, less people noticed their absence with all the commotion about the Red Keep. “I almost pity everyone in the Seven Kingdoms with what a wretched queen they’d have. They’d hate me.”

          “Probably,” Gendry agreed. She tried to glare at him, but they both ended up laughing. “But a queen can do whatever she pleases. Mine will anyways.”

          And then the day came. Cat arrived in Arya’s room and awoke her from her featherbed. Cat gathered her youngest daughter in a warm hug, and it took a while for Arya to realize that her mother was crying. She tried to remember the words Sansa used to comfort her mother during her own wedding.

          “Don’t worry, mother. I’ll stay with you and father in the Red Keep. You shall still see me every day.” Arya said while Cat still clutched to her daughter, wishing she could return to the days when she could cradle Arya in her arms and Sansa was only up to her knees and Robb was only learning to swordfight with a wooden stick.

          “Of course I know that, sweetling,” Cat sniffed and let go of Arya so she could smooth down her hair. “I only wish you didn’t grow so fast.”

          Arya wanted to argue that she hadn’t grown, and that she still wanted to stay in Winterfell with her brothers, but she shut her mouth for her mother. That morning, the Starks broke their fast together in the Tower of the Hand. Margaery arrived with Robb and Jessamine not long ago, but Rickon stayed under Cat’s orders that a Stark must always be in Winterfell. Ned and Cat played with little Jessamine while Robb and Bran made japes of how there was still enough time to run away if they go ready the horses now. Sansa reprimanded her brothers’ behavior, but Arya laughed along with her brothers. Her mother was wrong. They were all the same children they were in Winterfell.

          When Cat and Sansa left to ready Arya’s bath and Margery tended to Jessamine and Ned left to bring the Stark cloak, Arya asked Robb if Jon was here as well. Robb pressed his lips in a thin line and solemnly shook his head. The two Stark children knew her mother would never allow him to be at her wedding, but Arya needed to ask anyway. After her handmaidens scrubbed Arya’s skin dry, they left for Sansa and Cat to ready the youngest daughter of the Starks for her wedding.

          “How do you want your hair styled?” Sansa asked as she brushed Arya’s long brown mane. It was wiry and dry, but given the proper oils and herbs the day before, Sansa managed to somewhat revive the hair Arya neglected.

          “It must be up in a Southern braid. It is tradition.” Cat said, facing Arya’s reflection in the looking glass. Sansa nodded, but before either of them could do anything, Arya shook her head.

          “I refuse to have my hair like a bird’s nest. I let you two put me in a dress and scrub my skin to the bone and put oils in my hair and apply whatever makeup you must, but you shan’t put my hair up like those fools at court.” Arya scowled, refusing to let her mother and sister properly ready her. Before Sansa could reprimand her for offending the ladies at court, their mother only sighed.

          “Arya, I had to put my hair in a Northern style when I was married, and Sansa had to braid hers in the Southern style for her own wedding. It is simply tradition.”

          Arya only crossed her arms against her chest and straightened her neck, sending the message that she didn’t care for tradition. After a long moment of the three Stark she-wolves glaring at each other, Sansa finally put her arms in the air and surrendered. “Oh, alright. Have it your way then.”

          Arya smiled smugly as she nuzzled back in her chair, but pretended not to wince as her mother and sister practically yanked the brush through her hair and tugged it far too painfully into a Northern style braid. After they put as much powder and makeup as it took to make Arya look somewhat decent, they pulled her into a lavish gold gown with a tight bodice. The gown was beautiful with embroidery etched into every inch of fabric, and the thick skirt shined in the sunlight. A tight silver belt cinched at the waist of her bodice, and she noticed it was shaped as golden horns of a stag. Her father walked in to place the Stark cloak around her shoulders, and she noticed tears on his eyes as well. He and Cat embraced as they looked at their youngest daughter, the girl they never thought would marry, pampered and in a wedding gown, ready to meet Prince Gendry at the Great Sept of Baelor. They left the room together to ready for the procession to the Great Sept. Sansa fixed Arya’s hair once more and sprayed scented oil on her neck a final time, then looked her sister in the eye and whispered soft and low for only her own ears.

          “Are you sure you wish to proceed, Arya?” She asked. The question struck her. She never thought she’d hear the words off her sister’s lips, but she understood after she thought of Sansa’s own cursed marriage.

          Arya looked at her reflection in the looking glass. She didn’t look like Arya Stark of Winterfell anymore. The powders seemed to make her face more pale, and her eyes were deeper set and her lips red and plump. The dress managed to compliment whatever figure Arya had, pushing her small breasts up and making the bodice so tight she was unable to breathe. Her hair was done like how her sister and mother used to wear it in Winterfell. Two braids were made from behind her ears and met in the back of her head, joining into one tie. The rest of her hair was let down and fell to her shoulders. She realized this was what she was expected to be after tonight; Arya Baratheon, the princess and bride of Gendry Baratheon.

After a final glance at her reflection she shook her head and turned to her sister. “Family, duty, honor.” Arya said, remembering the words of her mother’s House. “But remember, winter is coming. I am not defenseless; I can handle what the Red Keep throws at me.” She wouldn’t allow the Red Keep to tame her. She would instead laugh and watch them try to tame the wild she-wolf lady of the North.

          Sansa laughed, despite the circumstances. It was typical for her sister to think of her own wedding as a battle. “Yes, but now you shall have to remember, sweet sister, ours is the fury. We shall _both_ be Baratheons after tonight.”

* * *

 

          Arya had never seen her father stand as tall or as proud as he did when he walked her down the steps of the Great Sept and gave her to her husband. She’d never before seen the Sept as crowded, each attendant eager to see the marriage between the future Rulers of the Realm. She’d never seen so many faces she didn’t know smiling at her as if they were genuinely happy for her. Margaery cradled Jessamine in her arms and Robb had his hand on her shoulder. Both smiled at her as she and her father passed them. Bran stood next to Sansa and Renly. Her future good-brother gave her a hearty smile, as did her younger brother. Her sister mouthed to her the words she repeated last before they left the Red Keep.

          Ned kissed her cheek and let Arya walk the last few steps to Gendry. He smiled at her with his blue eyes like ice. He wore a browned tunic with a golden sash, also bearing Baratheon embroidery. Their eyes locked, and their gaze held a thousand words yet their lips moved nay.

          “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The Sept called. Gendry removed his own cloak and wrapped it around Arya’s shoulders, covering her own Stark cloak. She could feel the eyes of many on her, expecting her to be the perfect queen or the perfect princess. She could already feel their disappointment and insults when she would let them down, but Arya Stark never did care of what others thought of her.

          But now she was expected to not be Arya Stark anymore, and now someone different entirely.

          Part of her wanted to shout and yell that she was still a Stark and to remove his cloak, but she knew eventually this would have had to happen, and she was glad it was Gendry instead of any other pompous lord who would have tried to change her. She cared for Gendry, she didn’t know how or why and she didn’t care to admit it to herself.

          After the ceremony was finished and they both announced their Vows in front of the Seven, the entire Great Sept of Baelor broke in cheers. They were cheering for her and Gendry. They cheered for their future king and queen. She looked to the Starks and her mother and father both had tears in their eyes. Her brothers cheered the loudest and her sister and good-brother smiled sweetly to her.

          “Long live Prince and Princess Gendry and Arya Baratheon!”                  

* * *

 

          The celebration was even more grand than promised. She’d never seen a bigger feast in all her years. Lords and ladies danced around her, a surplus of food was served aplenty, and some high lords and ladies stopped by the head table to offer their congratulations to the newlyweds. The Bear and the Maiden Fair was being sung and played by Hamish the Harper, an old singer with a long grey beard. Robb was the first to dance with her, telling her of how he never thought the day would come when he saw his youngest sister in a dress marrying a man, he thought she’d always have her hair tangled and have her shoes muddied and hear the never ending bickering between her and Sansa until Robb died of old age. Arya pretended that slamming her foot on his was an accident, and sweetly proclaimed that she should’ve taken more dancing lessons. He only laughed and exclaimed, “There she is! That’s my sister.”

          After the song finished, her father pulled her into a dance, but that only ended with him reminiscing of the days in Winterfell when she was small enough for him to carry over his shoulders. After a final hug the song finished and she returned to her table, wanting to catch her breath. Surely two dances were enough for the night; she’s already had one too many. If another man was to sweep her off her feet into another dance, she was sure this time it wouldn’t be an accident when she stepped on his foot. She peeked over her goblet of wine to see Gendry dancing with her sister. They both laughed at something he said, and Arya frowned. It should have been Sansa sitting in her chair now, as the bride of the prince. It was what she waited her whole life for, and dreamed every night of. Sansa would’ve made the perfect queen of Westeros.

          Arya was interrupted from her thoughts when someone pulled into the chair next to her and sat in the chair meant for the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, for her husband. An elderly tall and slender man with a clean shaved head and gold flecked eyes cleared his throat and showed Arya a cunning smile. The smile was all too familiar, for she had seen it worn on his children countless times. It took seconds for Arya to realize she was sitting next to Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock.

          “I offer you my congratulations on your wedding day, Princess.” He spoke easily and smoothly, but each word was chosen carefully. He was a wise man for his age. He reminded her of Tyrion.

          “Thank you, my lord.” Arya tried her best to remember to address him correctly. She sat up taller on her chair and straightened her posture.

          “I am sure the marriage between you and my grandson shall be a prosperous one.” He subtly raised an eyebrow and then flagged down the nearest maid to fill his wine goblet. “And how do you find my grandson?”

          “He is as stupid as a bull,” Arya quietly said under her breath before she could catch herself. She was sure the elder man couldn’t have heard her anyways, but Tywin leaned back in his grandson’s chair, perplexed and intrigued.

          “Is that so? He reminds me much of his father when he was his age, and I remember most girls seemed to swoon over him.”

          “Most girls are stupid.” Arya didn’t bother to try and be courteous anymore. Tywin leaned his head back and bellowed loud laughs.

          “You remind me of my daughter.” His smile vanished as quick as it came. That struck Arya. Of all people to remind someone of, Tywin thought of Cersei Baratheon, the wife of the King, her husband’s father, and now her good-mother? Arya did not talk to Cersei often as she would most often times try to avoid the Queen as she was bitter. Arya could not imagine herself resembling the Queen. “I wish you good luck on your future life in King’s Landing, Princess.”

          Arya murmured her thanks as Tywin stood from her husband’s chair and strode away with a certain swagger that only Lannisters held. She stood up as well with the intent to find Gendry, but she was stopped by another man. He was tall and fair haired with a slender build and blue eyes which glimmered purple. She remembered him as Ned Dayne, the Lord of Starfall. They talked during Sansa’s wedding, and he told her his family originally was planning to propose an alliance with House Stark before her betrothal was announced so suddenly. Despite their circumstances, she recalled him being genuinely kind to her.

          “Congratulations on your wedding, Princess.” Ned smiled as he bowed before her, trying to hide a chuckle.

          “If I hear another lord call me Princess I swear I will strike him.” She rolled her eyes and Ned laughed, leading her towards the other lords and ladies who were joyfully dancing. He asked to dance with her and she agreed, but as long as he was fine with having his toes stepped on, as her Septa often told her she danced with two left feet. Lusty Lad was being sung and she thought Gendry should’ve been the one holding her, but it was too late by then.

          “You look beautiful tonight, Arya. You remind me of Princess Arianne of Dorne with her beauty and fierce temper.” He seemed genuine when he complimented her, but she only laughed as loud as Tywin had earlier.

          “The night is young, yet you must have drunken too much wine already if you are comparing my beauty to a princess of Dorne.”

          “It was no jest,” He insisted as Arya scowled. Before he could say anything else, he looked behind her and she felt a tap on her shoulder. Arya turned expecting to finally greet her husband, but instead she found her fat bearded good-father, Robert Baratheon. Even the way he walked signaled that he had too much to drink already, and he wore a glazed look in his eyes as if he was seeing a vision.

          “If I may,” Robert nudged Ned away from Arya and took her in his own arms. She believed in that moment that he had every intent to carry her away and do as wished with her, but instead he held her waist closely and nuzzled his face by her own as they danced to Let Me Drink Your Beauty. She tried not to gag and reel her face away from his breath which reeked with the stench of wine, and she tried to ignore the fact that his beard grazed upon her chest. Robert Baratheon didn’t scare her, and she would not act that way, but King or not, she would punish him if he tried to do anything to her.

          “You look more beautiful than I have dreamed so, my sweet.” He almost sang in bliss. Arya quickly tried to scan the room for her father. She found him sitting next to her mother, and she sent him a look of exasperation, urging him to help remove the king from her, but she came to realize that the room seemed to freeze in their festivities to stare wide-eyed at the king and his new good-daughter. She felt the stare of blue eyes on her back as well, and that seemed to hit her the most. No matter what she could have done, she would have caused a scene. “My sweetling, my beautiful dear Lyanna…”

          “Your Grace,” Despite the correct and kind address, Arya’s voice spoke as if she addressed him as something much less honorable. He held her closer that time, and his grip became tighter and lower. Before she was about to shake him off, her father managed to place his hand on Robert. Robert didn’t move away, so he had to practically pull the drunken and tired King off his own good-daughter as she subtly pushed him off with gusto. People around them started to whisper, but Gendry quickly stepped in and held Arya’s hand and signaled for the singer to continue his song. My Featherbed was played louder than the past songs with haste for the guests to continue dancing. With help from the Kingsguard, Eddard escorted Robert to his solar for the night.

          “Thank you,” Arya finally said as the people around them seemed to calm and return to their festivities.

          “No need to thank me, I thought it was long past the time to dance with my wife.” Gendry shrugged off the event as if it was nothing, and even managed to make a jape of it, “After all, you were avoiding me all night.”

          “You’re right,” Arya said with all seriousness. Gendry looked from his feet and to his wife perplexed, before she finally smiled, “You’re right, I was too embarrassed to dance next to you. Your dancing skills are embarrassing next to my own; I did not want my husband to feel bad on his wedding night.”

          “Yet it appears that my dear wife’s dancing skills aren’t as impressive, either.” He flashed her a wicked grin as he twirled her around and dipped her low.

          “Prat,” Arya muttered as she was back on two feet.

          “ _Arya_!” Gendry gasped in mock pain. “Your cruel words hurt me.”

          “Prat,” Arya repeated and rolled her eyes. Gendry dipped her low again and twirled her around faster that time.

          Sansa sat next to her Lord husband and she watched with teary eyes as her sister danced happily with her own husband. Renly wrapped his arm around Sansa, offering her a filled goblet of wine. She thankfully took it from him and drank half of the glass. There was a time when she only drank wine when it was called for, but nowadays she often drank more to drown the sorrows she found in Storm’s End, but still less than her own sister and brothers.

          “They are a good match,” Renly observed, addressing her sister after he followed Sansa’s gaze.

          “Yes, they are.” Sansa agreed. Renly looked back from his own wife then to his nephew and his new bride, laughing together as they danced to My Featherbed. He truly did care for his wife, but in a different way than man and wife were expected to care for each other. Sansa respected him despite it all, and he respected her in return. He was always kind to her and she never raised her voice to him, nor he to her. They might have been friends under the correct circumstances if the Gods deemed it fit.

          “Would you care to dance?” He asked, offering her his hand. When she looked at her husband, she believed at that moment that not all knights were the ones in the songs.

           Only a few more songs were enjoyed peacefully without another event until lords started to call for a bedding. Arya and Gendry were pulled apart by various lords and ladies of the Realm. Ladies eagerly removed Gendry’s sash and wrapped their arms around him, giggling and laughing as the Prince blushed and tried to remain chivalrous as the ladies of court continued to remove layers of his clothing and to bring him out of the corridor and to his bedding chamber. The lords however, found it much more difficult to ready Arya for her bedding. By the time Gendry left the room, the lords were still trying to remove Arya’s clothes and hoist her into the air. The first man, a squire under House Tyrell as Sansa noticed, tried to tear off Arya’s dress. She punched him square in the jaw before he could get his hands on her. Cheers and laughs erupted from the crowd of lords, claiming the young girl was indeed was a she-wolf. Before any other lord could try to rid Arya of her clothing, Robb swept in and carried her off the ground as easily as if she was a child. Sansa _accidentally_ tripped a lord that tried to chase them, and she gracefully helped him up. She graciously apologized and claimed she didn’t see him. Bran held the doors open for Robb to dash through and slammed it shut behind him, stopping all other lords from following. Queen Cersei watched the entire scene of the bedding unfold before her eyes with her neck held high and a scowl on her beautiful face. _The Starks are truly wolf-blooded_ , she thought. But she knew what would happen if a wolf ever tried to cross with a lion. The Rains of Castamere was proof enough of that.

* * *

 

          “Robb,” Arya whispered, clutching his shoulder. She seemed to be shivering, despite the Red Keep being tenfold warmer than Winterfell ever was. “I’m scared.”

          Robb raised an eyebrow and lead her down the hall and took a left turn to the bedding chambers. That was the first time he’s ever heard Arya admit she was afraid to her eldest brother. “Don’t worry. Prince Gendry is a kind and gentle man, and if he proves me wrong, Bran and I would be glad to run our swords through him.”

          Arya laughed under her breath. “That would be called murdering the Prince.”

          “Which will not happen, as long as he doesn’t hurt you. Which I’m sure he won’t anyways.” He smiled, but it disappeared as he stopped in front of the door. Gendry was surely already inside, ready and waiting to consummate his marriage. He gently placed his youngest sister down and kissed her forehead. “Be brave, little wolf. If all else fails, just close your eyes and think of Winterfell.”

          She nodded and opened the doors to the chamber. It made a loud creak as she stepped inside, and she saw Gendry look up from where he sat on the bed, wrapped in the blankets, eating off the cheese platter beside him. He laughed when he saw Arya, still fully dressed in her wedding gown. “Did you hit him?” He asked her, referring to the first lord that tried to rid her of her clothes.

          “As hard as I could.” Arya assured him with a smile. After taking a deep breath, she repeated her brother’s words in her head. She repeated the phrase over and over again until she thought of it as a prayer when she sat next to Gendry, now her husband. The bedding only covered half of Gendry as he sat up in the bed, picking grapes off a bundle and popping one in his mouth. He paid her no mind as she sat next to him, fully prepared for what her Septa and her mother told her of what was supposed to happen during a bedding. Instead, to her amazement, Gendry seemed to act as if she wasn’t there, and paid the bundle of grapes he held in his hand all his attention. She stared at him in frustration until she laughed under her breath. He asked her what she amusing. “Here I am, ready to be bedded, and there you are, eating grapes off a bundle, stupid.”

          His eyebrows raised in surprise. “You _want_ to be bedded?”

          She frowned, awestruck by the stupid arse bull-headed Prince. “That’s what happens during a bedding.”

          “I was under the impression you did not want me to bed you.” He frowned as well, pushing the cheese platter off his lap.

          “So are we to remain celibate for the rest of our days then?” She asked, but he heard the hidden words; _let’s just get this done_.

          He nodded, her meaning well understood. Impatient and ready for what she perceived as a battle to be won, she stood from the bed to unwrapped the Stag’s belt from around her waist and unlaced the top layer of her gown.  At first Gendry tried not to watch, but then he remembered that she was his now, and he was hers. He tried his best not to act like his father; he tried not to drink, with fear that he would fall into the same damnation his father did, he remained as chivalrous as he could, and he vowed never to take any woman to his bed than his wife, and he intended to keep his Vows. But there was no need to hide his desire for her any longer. As the last layer of her gown fell to the floor, she was left standing in her smallclothes, waiting for what was supposed to happen next. She felt cold and almost wanted to cover herself with her arms, but Gendry gently helped her move next to him on the bed. When he moved, she saw the blankets from the bed inch lower off his body, revealing more of his muscles, reminding her of a golden dozen of eggs. She had to admit that he was handsome with his ice blue eyes and his dark hair and strong jaw that so many ladies seemed to swoon over.

          “Would you believe me if I told you that you are beautiful, Arya?” Gendry said, as if he could read her thoughts. She only laughed and settled into the bed, lying next to him.

          “No, I would tell you that you are a stupid fool.”

          He frowned at her response. “You really don’t believe you’re beautiful?”

          “Seven Hells, no. My sister is beautiful. Margaery is beautiful. Myrcella is beautiful. I am simply Arya Horseface, the she-wolf.” She laughed again, but he did not take it as a joke.

          “That day when I crowned you as the Queen of Love and Beauty I meant it, Arya. You were the most beautiful lady in the stadium, and are the most beautiful woman in Westeros. You are more beautiful than your sister, more beautiful than Lady Margaery, more beautiful than my own sister. It has always been you since the day I found you in the dungeons, staring at the dragon bones. But you never did care about beauty, and it wouldn’t matter to me if you look as you are now, or if you were to gain a scar on your face tomorrow. You are the most adventurous, wild, smart pain in my arse.” His blue eyes met her grey ones in a smile. Her face softened, drinking in his words. Of all the Lords that called her beautiful that night, it was Gendry that made her believe it for once in her life.

          “Kiss me, Gendry.” She ordered him. He didn’t even need for her to tell him. She saw his desire for her so clearly carved on his face that she’d wondered how he’d hid it for so long. He leaned towards her and placed her hair behind her ears to kiss her gently. That was the second time he’s ever truly kissed Arya, besides the wedding ceremony in the Sept. He tangled his hands in her hair and she pulled him closer to her, wanting to feel him, wanting to touch him. Their first kiss was sweet and gentle; as innocent a kiss from a Knight to his Lady in the songs. But their second kiss was more passionate, testing their limits with each other, wanting to feel each other. He kissed her neck and trailed down her stomach, stopping in between her thighs. Her hands wrapped around his hair, telling him without words that it was alright for him to continue. No, that she _wanted_ and ached for him not to stop.

          She closed her eyes as she felt his tongue over her most sensitive parts. She tried to move her hips forward, wanting more, but he held her in place with his hands. He kissed and licked and flicked her tongue, as each movement sent a new sensation over her entire body. She felt as if she was racing and wanted to get to the finish line. Each wave of euphoria was even stronger than the last, and finally his name was on her lips as a moan, and she cried out his name again as she reached her peak. When he rose his head from her, she brought his face to hers, craving more. She kissed his lips and tasted herself on his tongue.

          “Arya…” Gendry groaned, and she noticed his cock against her stomach, hard and pressed against her. She nodded, and he rose himself on top of her. Before he pushed into her, he gave her a final look as if questioning to continue.

          “Do it.” With a nod and a small push, she gasped as he entered her. The feeling was odd and new, and it stung. She bit her lip, not wanting to alarm him, but the pleasure was quickly overriding the pain. She wrapped her arms around him and raised her hips, pulling him deeper. She wanted all of him, and never wanted to let him go. She moaned again as he pulled out and they settled into a rhythm until all emptiness between them was gone.

          The way she touched him made him want her even more. The way she always returned to him and the way she said his name like a prayer on her lips was all he’s ever wanted. He started out slow and gentle until his need started to become stronger. He thrust into her faster, and she met him at the same time, setting her on her race again. With each thrust, a sense of euphoric passion washed over them, cleansing whatever doubt they had of each other.

          He felt her body tighten against him as she repeated his name one last time, her voice reaching a crescendo as her bliss reached a second peak. He came after her, her name on his lips as his seed spilled inside her. They both stayed that way, trying to catch their breath until he finally pulled out of her. Part of her felt empty and lost after he removed himself, and she wanted him to return to her.

          Instead, he kissed her again and hovered above her, his hands next to her face, elevating him as he kissed her again and again. “I love you, Arya.” He said to her. She might have thought that maybe it was the wine from the feast, or perhaps it was the sex talking for him, but he was Gendry.

          She leaned up on the bed and straddled him, her face inches from his. “And I love you.”

Robb had told her to think of Winterfell and to be brave. She didn’t need to do any of those that night.


	10. Hear Me Roar

          They made love twice again before they both passed out that night. When she awoke, Arya felt her legs more sore and uncomfortable than after any “dancing lesson” she’d ever received. When she leaned up on the bedpost, she found that Gendry was already awake next to her, reading a book he must have found lying around somewhere in the large bedding chamber. She was startled to find that she awoke naked and wanted to cover herself. The sensation of waking up next to someone was still new to her, but she found her bashfulness in his presence silly, as they were together as intimate as they could have been the night before. It made a blush rise to her cheeks and her stomach stir, remembering just what they did that night. She would have been eager to have another go, but she doubted she could with her legs so sore.

          He kissed her again when he realized she was awake. When she got up from the bed to retrieve some clothes, she almost began to limp to the oak dresser. Concern and guilt was etched in his face with each step she took, but she assured him she was fine. After they broke their fast together, they attended court and their bedding was displayed to the King for him to validate the consummation of the marriage. After their marriage was validated, they made haste to quickly exit the throne room, as they found they did not enjoy court. They didn’t exactly know where they wanted to go next. Gendry offered to ready their horses and ride to Blackwater Bay, but Arya hardly imagined that riding would be the most comfortable task. Despite her skills, her legs still ached from the night before. He nodded and they walked to the lower courtyard intending to perhaps spar with each other, but Joffrey was already there, on his way to his solar from his new sword lessons, as his new swords master was picked for him graciously thanks to his sentence on the Kingsroad. Before Gendry and Arya could turn the other way, the boy sneered as he caught sight of his brother with his wife.

          “So tell me, dear brother.” Joffrey called across the courtyard, “How was like it to bed the she-wolf? Was she as wild as they bid, or did you break her in? The entire party heard you two going at it like animals last night, I could not help but inquire.”

          Arya growled and stepped forward wanting nothing more than to strike the boy, Prince or not, but Gendry held her back. When Joffrey saw that, he took it upon himself to torture his elder brother and his wife even more. Joffrey tilted his head to the sky and laughed loud and clear, Arya was sure anyone in the Seven Hells could’ve heard him. “Oh, you’re protecting the savage now? How pathetic. Mother would have a laugh.”

          Arya thought Gendry might have been the one to strike his brother then, but he held his ground as his little brother walked away from them both, laughing all the while. Before Joffrey could pass Gendry however, Gendry caught his brother’s arm and spoke soft and calmly, “If you dare speak ill to Arya or me again, Cersei will not be able to save you.”

          Joffrey stared wide-eyed at his older brother, before quickly removing his arm from Gendry’s grip and continued to walk to his solar furiously. Arya never thought she’d seen Gendry resemble the King other than his appearance, but as he threatened the Prince, he spoke like a true Heir. Despite her hatred of one day becoming queen, she was glad Gendry was the eldest son. She was sure if Westeros was under Joffrey’s rule, peace would only last a day before chaos would burn the lands down.

* * *

 

It wasn’t long after Arya and Gendry’s wedding that Myrcella’s own betrothal had been announced to Trystane Martell, the ruling prince of Dorne. Myrcella sat next to Bran on the highest tower of the Red Keep where nobody would dare look. Often times, she would hide there so neither her Septa nor her family could find her. She hid with the intentions only for Bran to climb and rescue her. Myrcella had once japed that it was like their Tower of Joy, but the day before she was to be shipped off to Dorne, the princess laid in the arms of Bran. Her head was atop his shoulder as tears ran down her beautiful porcelain face. Bran wanted to comfort her, but he himself did not know the correct words to say, for he too wanted to cry with her, but did not in fear of upsetting the princess even further.

          “I do not want to go to Dorne. I do not want to travel to Sunspear and marry Prince Trystane.” Myrcella sniffed and looked to the top of the tower above her. Through her green eyes shone tears and despair. Her mother often told her she was a lion of Casterly Rock and not to act weak, but the Princess felt helpless.

          “Prince Trystane will be good to you.” Bran promised, but he wished he knew it was true. He was too much of a Stark with his honor and chivalry to tell her that in truth, he did not want Myrcella to marry Trystane Martell either.

          “You want me to go to Dorne and marry Trystane Martell?” Myrcella raised her flaxen head from Bran’s shoulder and stared at him as if he had betrayed her.

          “I want you to be happy.” Bran swore to her.

          “I will be happy if I could be with you.” Myrcella looked from Bran and to the tower’s window, overlooking the large landscape of the Red Keep and the horizon of Blackwater Bay. “We can run away together.”

          “And where would we go?” Bran asked out of curiosity, but his tone was kept flat.

          “We can travel to the Free Cities.”

          “Your father’s wrath would follow, and it wouldn’t stop until he’d find us.”

          “We would blend in with the fair skinned people in Lys and you could dye your hair blonde. If anyone is to ask, we would say we’re travelling as brother and sister. No one will find us.”

          “The last time someone in the royal family ran away with a Stark, a war was started.” Bran looked Myrcella in her eyes, wanting her to know that it couldn’t happen. It would never happen. He then took her fair and small hand in his larger and calloused one. She refused to keep his gaze and looked out the window, not wanting him to see tears well up in her eyes once again. She understood all that was not said.

          He kissed her one last time, as he wanted to remember the feel and the taste of her on his lips. He wanted to engrave in his memory the feel of cheek and her hair, but the kiss was laced with too much sorrow and loss.

* * *

 

          Cersei’s words were laced with so much hate and resentment that Robert almost wanted to cringe when he heard his wife speak. After he closed the door behind him, she pounced on him like the lion she was. “Myrcella is my only daughter; do you really think I’d sell her like a common whore?”

          “Dorne is the safest place for Myrcella.” Robert’s voice was kept in a low growl as he tried to reason with the queen.

          “Are you mad? The Martells loathe us.”

          “That’s why we need the alliance. Have you heard of the Targaryen whore? They say she has three dragons and an army, ready to invade Westeros. Should that happen, our alliance with Dorne will prove useful, and they will fight by our side.”

          “Since when did you take such an interest in politics? Where is the King that would just order her assassination and be done with it? My brother put you up to this, didn’t he?” Cersei roared, “Or perhaps it was Ned Stark, your precious and honorable Hand? Perhaps it was he who you should have married.”

          Robert turned on his wife and his hand fell across her face, leaving a pink mark on her Lannister cheek. Pain budded throughout her face and she gasped as she touched her raw skin. After the shock was gone, she faced her husband again, head held high and gaze kept. She would act the Queen she was, and she would not let him strike her like some common whore the King often spent nights with. “I shall wear this as a badge of honor.”

          “Wear it in silence or I shall honor you again.” He threatened her. She did not cower under a stag, but instead kept her silence. Her father once told her and Jaime that no one was to strike a Lannister, else they shall learn from the Rains of Castamere with no one else to hear.

* * *

 

          They’d lain together every night after the wedding, and often spent their days together roaming the Red Keep or riding, but this day she decided to spend her time with her father and mother. Gendry was with his father’s hunting party searching for game. Arya wanted join them, but Gendry made her realize that his father would never allow it, even more so with her new title ever since the wedding. So Arya huffed and waited for him to return as she supped with her parents. Bran, Robb, Margaery, and Jessamine hadn’t returned to Winterfell yet, as Margaery quite enjoyed the South. It was rare to find Bran, as he kept to himself after Princess Myrcella was shipped off to Dorne days before for her betrothal to Trystane Martell. She’d never thought she’d seen her brother so unhappy.

          The first night after the King had left for the hunt, Arya wanted to explore the Red Keep to search for Bran. She hadn’t seen him since Myrcella left King’s Landing, and when she asked Robb, he only told her he’d seen him, but rarely. She was worried for her little brother. She didn’t deem it such a hard task to search the Keep for him, as she practically knew every nook and cranny in the Keep, but Bran liked to climb high towers, and she couldn’t. Servants started to give her odd expressions as she passed them by, as it was odd to see a princess roaming the Red Keep alone, and so late, but Arya ignored each look and passed everyone with ease until she found the highest tower in the Red Keep. It was a painstaking task to climb each flight of stairs, but she knew that this must have been Bran’s hiding place.

          After the third set of stairs, Arya started to hear faint noises, showing that she wasn’t alone. The Red Keep was supposed to be her new home, but she wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was safe, and where it was so dark and isolated, Arya couldn’t help but be cautious. From her boot she unsheathed the dagger Gendry had gifted her, and took a defensive stance as she crept up more steps. As she got closer to the top flight, she realized the noises she heard were the moans of Cersei and Jaime Lannister.

          She almost dropped her dagger in shock and disgust as she distinguished the voices, but she quickly caught herself. Not wanting to stay any longer, she hurried down each flight of stairs swift as a deer, and quiet as a shadow. When she finally reached the bottom, she caught her breath then ran for the Tower of the Hand to find her father. As soon as Jory had opened the door for her, both he and her father’s jaws dropped as they found Arya panting for breath with her hair in a mess wearing trousers and an oversized tunic, which Ned thought must have been Gendry’s. He would have found it amusing, like a glimpse from the past, if it hadn’t been for Arya’s panicked expression. After Ned told Jory to guard the door, he bid for Arya to sit next to him. He put his arm around her shoulder and let her catch her breath before she explained herself.

          “Father… I went around the Red Keep looking for Bran, so I went to the highest tower, but I heard the Queen and her brother…” Arya shook her head and didn’t want to say the rest of what she heard.

          She watched with shock as he closed his Stark grey eyes, understanding his daughter. He already knew. He put his hand on his forehead and then looked back to his youngest daughter, his little wolf. She shouldn’t have to stay in the Red Keep, where the South would burn her Northern spirit. She shouldn’t have to live with liars and murderers. He wanted better for his daughter, but he knew it was too late.

          “You… you knew?” Arya asked in horror. “You knew that the Queen and her brother, they…”

          “Some secrets were meant to stay secrets.” Her father warned her.When he first became Hand, he was still naïve and foolish to believe that everyone could be, and had the power in them to be honorable. A moon in King’s Landing killed his spirit. He did not want to learn how long it would take until Arya’s diminished.

* * *

 

          The next evening when the sun set and the Starks finished their supper, a handmaid knocked on the door of the solar. When Ned called for her to enter, she only said that the Queen wished to speak with Arya. All eyes on the table gawked at Arya as if she’d done something wrong. Arya and her father locked eyes for a moment, with shared terror. _She knows,_ Arya thought, _Cersei knows._ She froze in her seat before her mother urged her to go and not to keep the Queen waiting. When she arrived in Cersei’s solar, she found her sitting behind a table with a pitcher of wine and two glasses, one already filled. She wore a deep red dress with golden trim and detail, and her flaxen hair was kept down unlike at court. Her hair was the color of sunlight, but her bitter smile darkened whatever innocence her flaxen hair granted her. When she saw Arya, she smiled and ushered her to the table whilst dismissing the handmaiden.

          “Please, sit. Have some wine.” Cersei offered. Arya frowned and hesitantly sat in front of Cersei, and poured her own glass. When she sat in front of her and under the candlelight she noticed a bright pink new scar on Cersei’s right cheek, and she shuddered when she thought where it was undoubtedly from. It was no secret that the King and Queen held no true affections for each other, and it was even less a secret around the Red Keep that the Queen hated having her daughter sent to Dorne.

“You must be wondering why I have called you here.”

          “Very much so, Your Grace.” Arya took a swig from her wine goblet and decided it might have been better to confront the Queen with all her wits about her, and instead placed the glass back on the table

          After a long drink from her wine glass, the Queen leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on her lap. “You are my good-daughter now, and you have done it, you’ve married a Baratheon. Congratulations.” Cersei spoke as if she was praising a child for taking its first steps. She then smirked and poured more wine in Arya’s untouched glass. “And how is your marriage to my son faring?”

          “ _Brilliantly_ , Your Grace.” Arya replied sarcastically.

          “I see, as to how you both barely spend time out of his chambers. He’ll put a babe in you in no time, and the royal family will be blessed with their next heir.”

          Arya coughed as she considered the Queen. She’d never given much thought to children. Of course with her new marriage to the Heir, she would have to eventually have children to keep the line of succession. She couldn’t imagine herself with a plump and howling babe in her calloused hands. The only thing she’d ever cared to hold was a weapon. A child would not suit her as much as the title of Queen would either, but she was sure Gendry would be delighted with the thought of squealing and blubbering children. She did not know _what_ to think.

          “We are not so different, little wolf.” Cersei purred, her words as carefully chosen as Tywin’s or Tyrion’s. Arya realized that mayhaps if Cersei had been born a boy, she would have had the power she’d dreamed of without the need of marrying the fat King. From Cersei’s new tone, Arya wasn’t sure anymore if she was actually called for the incident from the night before, or even if the Queen had any knowledge that Arya discovered them.

          “I am _not_ your little wolf.” Arya spoke calmly as she addressed the Queen, but the threat was understood low and even. It was like a dance between two animals; the powerful lion and the young wolf. Cersei at once remembered the words she heard as a girl in Lannisport; _Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear_. Cersei shook her head and forbade the prophecy to deem itself true.

          Arya at once stood from her chair with the intention to leave the presence of the queen, but Cersei spoke before she could reach the door. “Permit me to share some womanly wisdom with you.” Arya turned to look at Queen Cersei; beautiful and deadly as a snake, yet powerful as a lion. She stopped with her hand on the cool door handle. “The more people you love, the weaker you are. You will do things for them that you know you shouldn’t do. You will act the fool to keep them happy, to keep them safe. Love no one but your children. On that front a woman has no choice.”

          “Why are you telling me this, Your Grace?” Arya asked as she held her gaze with the queen, refusing to be unnerved. She was beautiful then, with her dangerous Stark grey eyes and caramel hair tied into a braid on her shoulder. The candlelight only highlighted her Northern beauty which she had always neglected. Her posture was straight and her neck held high as she looked down on Cersei, who still sat. Arya looked like a true Queen.

          “You may think you love that Baratheon,” Cersei sipped her wine and spoke regarding her eldest son with distaste, “you may think you love his… eyes, his smile, his hair, his strength. You may think you love the Baratheon until one day he fathers a bastard, and then more, and dishonors and humiliates you. You may think you love him until one day he will take away everything you hold dear.”

          Arya stared at the queen, jaw clenched and her hand gripped the door handle tighter, until it was on the verge of breaking off the chamber door. She looked at the spiteful Queen who abhorred and loathed her and her husband.

          “They may share the same blood, but Gendry is _not_ Robert Baratheon. Take care not to make the same mistake again, Your Grace.” Arya snarled before slamming the door shut on the Queen.

* * *

 

          Arya was in the courtyard the next morning practicing her water dance with Needle in her calloused hand. The summer breeze was starting to become uncomfortable, as Arya never thought she would ever get used to the heat in the South. She wore trousers and Gendry’s tunic, and her hair was once again braided over her shoulder, as she hated it getting in her way. It would have been like a vision from the past, seeing Arya fumble around with a sword and a dirtied face and trousers back as a child in Winterfell. A crow landed on the shrubs in front of Arya. It was skinny and as black as the garbs Arya was sure Jon was to wear now. The crow let out a loud gawk as it laughed at her, and then flew to peck her hand. Before Arya could scare it away, it instead flew away in the disturbance of Renly Baratheon running towards her in a panicked craze. The hunting party wasn’t expected to return until the next morning, and Arya’s heart immediately sunk as she began to write the darkest theories in her head of why they could have arrived early. Arya wasn’t stupid enough to believe that her threat to the Queen the night before hadn’t gone unnoticed.

          She instantly sheathed Needle and hurried towards her good-brother. Both were panting by the time they reached each other. Renly was still dressed in the clothes he left with, in his leather armor and Baratheon Stag’s brooch. His terrified blue eyes reminded her too much of her husband, and her heart sank deeper.

          “How dare you?” Arya spat before she could stop herself. She pushed him hard on the shoulders as the ideas in her head raced and shouted into her ears, causing all rational thoughts to cease. “How dare you let him get hurt?”

          “No, it is not Gendry, Arya.” Renly backed away from his good-sister with haste. He didn’t seem to care that she pushed him or just yelled at him, for his mind was too occupied.

          “ _What_?” Arya finally let out a breath of air in relief, but it was far too early to relax. She’d never seen her good-brother at such unease, and the hunting party wasn’t expected to arrive so early. Arya’s eyebrows knit together as her mind raced, trying to piece together small hints to the mystery.

          “It is the King. There was this boar…” Renly started to speak in a crazed manner, which Arya could not understand. She told him to catch his breath and to start again. He cleared his throat and looked from his shoes then to Arya’s stormy grey eyes. “During the hunt, the King was injured by a boar. You must come quickly.”


	11. First of His Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I kind of maneuvered the canon timeline a bit, sorry for that, but just go with it.

                Arya followed Renly into the Red Keep as he explained more of what happened. Arya’s mind raced fervently, and she barely heard her good-brother speak. If the King was to die, that meant they would crown Gendry as their next King, and Arya would become his Queen. As the thought rooted deeper in her head, she felt chills in her bones. She expected more time before she would become Queen; she thought Robert would live to be old, and she thought Cersei would do everything in her power to stop Arya from becoming Queen. She was barely adjusted to married life, and now she was to be thrown into another hellfire.

          “The King was drunk and angry, and he wanted to show off, so naturally he lunged at the bull, but he missed. It wounded his side terribly; Gendry had to help the Kingsguard carry Robert back onto his horse, and we rode to the Red Keep immediately.” She vaguely heard Renly recall the disastrous hunt as they stopped at the end of the hall. Varys, Littlefinger, and Maester Pycelle waited in front of the metal door which leaded to the King’s chambers. The Kingsguard stood alerted at the front of the King’s doors, but Jaime was the one to let Arya and Renly in. Arya tried not to look at the Kingslayer as she hurried past him. Arya walked quietly next to her father, who watched his bedridden best and oldest friend with concerned eyes. The Queen stood the furthest from the King’s bed, and she kept her gaze on her younger children who circled around the King.

          “I was not meant to be a father,” She heard Robert’s frail voice speak from his bed. He held Gendry’s hand in his, and she watched as he and Gendry locked their same water blue eyes. Gendry looked unafraid, but he only had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was trying to suppress his fear. The King continued to speak, “but I am glad you grew up to be a fine man, brave and strong, like a true Baratheon.” Robert looked from behind Gendry and found Arya next to her father. “Protect that wife of yours. Keep her safe. If you lose her like I did, I will haunt you from my grave, son.”

          Robert tried to laugh, but it only came out as a frail cough. Arya looked to her own father after the King alluded to Lyanna. Ned didn’t seem to show a reaction, but his frown only deepened further and his gaze fell. With that, Gendry nodded and stood away from his father’s deathbed to stand next to Arya. She looked to her husband then, he had his jaw clenched and his hand was wrapped into a fist. Arya wondered if it was true that all the Baratheons contained an untamable fury.

          She wrapped her arm around his with a silent sign to tell him that she was there for him; to remind him that she loved him. His posture instantly eased and his palms unwrapped themselves from its fists as Ned walked closer to the King and pushed aside some of the featherbed’s blankets to reveal the King’s wound. Although Maester Pycelle took care to wrap it and treat it carefully, Arya could still see blood oozing from the wrappings and black biting around Robert’s skin. Ned was quick to place the blanket back over the King while he made a jape of how he impaled the boar straight in its brains for what it did. No one in the room seemed to care what happened to the boar or for the King’s efforts to make his last moments memorable, so Robert only nodded grimly and dismissed everyone but Ned to leave. Cersei tried to call him her sweet and tell him to let them stay, but Robert only yelled louder for them to go, which resulted in a loud cough with the shattering of bones. As everyone filed out the room and into the hallway, Arya was glad to leave the King’s room, whom death will claim soon enough.

          When Arya stood next to Gendry again, she was sure she looked more frightened than he. Gendry did his best to hide his fears and emotions from everyone in the halls, as he was sure it would have been foolish for the Kingsguard and the Small Council to watch their future King weep. With Arya’s hand still in his and without a word of excuse, he walked out of the halls, leaving his father’s deathbed. When the King’s men were out of sight, each step he took further was with added fury and rage until they reached the courtyard. Arya didn’t dare to speak a word until a warhammer was in his hands and he was lashing at the nearest practice dummy he could find.

          “Gendry,” Arya warned before the dummy was able to collapse into a pile of hay.

          “It was my fault.” Gendry swore as he took one last blow to the dummy and he placed the warhammer’s hammer on the ground, and leaned against the handle. “It’s my fault my own father is going to die.”

          “ _What_?” Arya immediately stood from where she sat watching Gendry and stepped closer to her husband in disbelief. Her eyes widened and she could feel her heartbeat start to quicken. Gendry was capable of many things, but kinslaying was not one.

          “Robert was angry because of _me_.” Gendry said, staring at the grass under him with utter hatred and distaste. She could see the beads of sweat on his face and frustration etched into his brows. “He spoke of this nonsense of fucking a girl in every kingdom, calling it ‘making the eight’. I said something to disagree with and insulted him, and he kept asking for more wine… and then he went for the boar to show his son how ‘a real Baratheon’ hunts.”

          Arya looked to Gendry, and she momentarily let go of her own selfish worries of becoming Queen to soothe his own. She was not sure if she could be his Queen , but there was one thing she was confident in. “Gendry, look at me.” She ordered. When he finally rose his head to look at Arya, she spoke, “None of this is your fault. The King gets mad, and then he drinks. That’s what he does. You couldn’t control the boar and you are not the cause of his death.”

          “I could have saved him.”

          “No, you couldn’t have.” Arya stepped towards him and he let his warhammer fall from his grip, allowing him to embrace his wife as she went towards him. They both were silent, only enjoying the feel of each other’s arms and bodies, until both seemed to calm.

          Gendry breathed deeply and kissed the top of Arya’s head, the same as Jon used to. “It’s my fault you’re going to be Queen.”

          “Stop blaming yourself for everything.” Arya pulled him towards her so she could kiss him better. In truth, she did not want to become Queen so soon, but did not say anything in hopes of calming Gendry.

* * *

 

          That evening, the King took his last breath, and each bell on the Great Sept of Baelor rang loud and true. Within a fortnight, Gendry was crowned as King Gendry of House Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Arya stood tall next to him as she took the title of his Queen. The next dawn, Sansa and Renly left to Storm’s End. Arya promised to write to Sansa, and that she would help. The same morning, Robb left with Margaery Jessamine and Bran to return to Winterfell. Part of Arya wanted to beg her brother to take her with them.

          Arya never believed court would be as boring as it was. She was forced to sit next to Gendry as his Queen for hours, listening to other’s problems. She didn’t see any need for her presence; Gendry did not even need her insight, nor would it do him good to ask for it. She often disappeared from court and instead trained in the courtyard with Needle or read a tome about the nomadic warriors in the Free Cities or about the dragons during the Targaryen Dynasty. She found it all fascinating, as her Septa often forbade Arya from reading the “barbaric” tomes in the Winterfell library.

          It wasn’t long until Arya started to hear whispers around court of how the two Stark sisters were barren. Arya never did care when people gossiped about her, but no one was allowed to insult her sister other than her. One morning she heard whispers from her ladies in waiting pointing out that neither the Queen nor her sister had given birth to a babe yet. Arya only sent the foolish ladies a murderous glare, and with Nymeria’s growl from next to her, the ladies almost screamed. Gendry told her that night with amusement clear in his voice that she shouldn’t take Nymeria to court anymore; it was starting to scare everyone.

          Arya discovered that she hated her reign even more as each day dragged on. She missed Gendry as she barely saw him anymore, except at the ungodly hours of night, and their time together was often spent making love. When she would wake in the mornings she would find him dressing and regrettably leaving her for Court. She would awake every morning to find the indentation in their featherbed where he laid not long ago, except for one morning where she decided to change that. The first rays of dawn hadn’t even poured through their window yet, and for once, she realized she woke before him. After realizing he was still next to her and in a deeper slumber than her, she rose from the bed with the intents to break her fast alone as she did not want to disturb him and he needed his rest. Before she even called in her ladies in waiting to bring in her food, she already decided against her ideas of kindness; she was lonely and bored, and she wanted to talk to her husband. Deciding that he had gotten enough rest already, she stripped the sheets from their featherbed and dropped them on the floor. He instantly shuddered and awoke.

          “Seven Hells, Arya.” Gendry groaned as he turned over on the featherbed, trying to relinquish what warmth was left.

          “Nice to see you too, dear husband,” Arya replied in a voice to sweet to come from her mouth, it almost made her want to gag. Laughing, Gendry pulled Arya onto the bed next to him and wrapped his arm around her. “Now we’ll both be cold, stupid.”

          “I’m making you suffer with me.” He said before he kissed her. He held her closer, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to bring him the closest. Their bodies were entangled with each other’s, until Arya put her head against Gendry’s chest. He found Arya’s tome about dragons lying across their bed, carelessly thrown around from the night before, and he decided to read to her as her head remained on his chest, and the sun rose from Blackwater Bay.

          “Stay with me today.” She ordered him, interrupting his tale of how Aegon the First raided Westeros and put the dawn of the Seven Kings to end, and started his own reign.

          “Arya, I can’t…” He looked at her painfully, and it took every ounce of his strength to deny her.

          She rose her head from his chest and rose an eyebrow, surprised that he denied her. Before he could get up from the featherbed and get ready for court, she straddled his waist and entwined her hands in his. She could feel all the power in her and her heartbeat race as she leaned down and kissed his ear, gently whispering one last time, “Stay with me.”

          He didn’t need any more encouragement.

          Gendry ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but it was known that he was ruled by Arya.

* * *

 

          Only a few moon turns of peace lasted before word arrived to court of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Gendry was expected to rally his troops and travel to the Iron Islands to crush the rebellion. Arya had watched him ride out of the Red Keep that dawn, their last embrace still fresh on her skin and their last kiss still ripe on her lips.

          “ _Come back to me_ ,” She made him promise.

          “As my lady commands,” Was his reply. She had half the right mind to shove him away as he laughed from his jest before he mounted his horse.

          Arya never did realize what it meant that the King was riding out to war until the next morning when her ladies in waiting awoke her themselves to ready her for court. Arya had hated it all and relied mostly on her father, as he was the only man on the council she could trust. She grew tiresome and each raven she received from Gendry became shorter and shorter until it ceased within a moon turn. With the absence of her least loved son and the death of her husband, Cersei never ceased to show herself at court and try to subtly sway the council a different direction than Arya’s intention. Arya never did want to play the Game, nor was she any good at it, but she never missed Cersei’s subtleties.

          One dawn while everyone was in the Sept praying for the King’s safe return, Arya escorted herself to the empty Throne Room to find no other than a boy with flaxen hair sitting on the Iron Throne, back leaned and arm resting against the rest as if he was lounging around. Arya winced as she remembered her encounter on Cersei and Jaime, and wondered doubtless that Joffrey was indeed a bastard child, along with Myrcella and Tommen.

          “Are you warming the seat warm for your brother’s return?” Arya asked as she stepped closer to the throne. She stopped before the steps leading towards the throne, and raised an eyebrow with every intent to scrape Joffrey off the throne if needed.

          “You cannot talk to me that way, wolf.” Joffrey snarled mindlessly.

          “Oh, but it is you that cannot talk to me that way, _Prince_.” Arya chided, done with her rotten and foolish good-brother. It took all of her self containment not to lash at Joffrey there, but instead she stood tall and spoke smoothly as she had seen Gendry do countless times. “It seems that the concept of marriage seems to confuse you, so let me help you. Your brother is King, and I am his Queen. It is treason to speak to your Queen so ill, so it would do you right to remember your manners.”

          “You savage wolf!” Joffrey’s face contorted into an even uglier snarl, if possible.

          Arya clucked her tongue in disappointment and regarded him as a child, which was all she saw in her eyes. “Now what did I say about remembering your manners? Or shall I call Ser Aerys to help you remember?” Gendry had left Ser Aerys, a member of his Kingsguard, in the Red Keep with the specific instructions to protect his wife.

          “You will regret this, I swear.” Joffrey swore as he removed himself from the throne.

          Every day after that without Gendry and thrust into court was another day dancing in hellfire. She and her father spent more time together talking of meaningless matter in court, as now she was required to know, and of the Rebellion. She didn’t notice until then that her father had grown so old, with hairs as white as winter weaving into his beard and chestnut hair.

          It took moons until Gendry returned to her with his army, declaring that the rebellion was crushed. Two moon turns had passed since Gendry’s return until Cersei suggested to plan a tourney in honor of Gendry’s first nameday as King. He was originally against the idea, as he was doing his best to salvage whatever money his father hadn’t wasted during his reign, but even his council insisted to it, admitting that some festivities were necessary from time to time, else people would grow restless, especially since a rebellion was just diminished. The tourney was planned within a fortnight, and knights and ladies and lords from across the Seven Kingdoms arrived at the Red Keep in honor of the King’s twenty and second nameday. When a raven returned from Winterfell with the assurance that her younger brothers were attending the tourney, as they had been planning to visit Arya and their parents anyways, Arya expected to greet her small little brothers, but she gaped as she looked at the two lads when they arrived in the South, who had already looked like men grown.

          Bran’s thick auburn hair had grown longer since he’d last visited the South, and he’d spent less time caring for his appearance. Their lady mother almost threw a fit as she saw Bran, and she instantly took him to trim his hair herself. Rickon on the other hand, finally decided to trade his long unkempt hair, and trimmed it more like Robb’s. To Arya’s utter disappointment, she discovered that she was the same height as both her younger brothers, and they never let her forget during their entire stay. Later when Sansa and her lord husband arrived, Arya saw that her sister still looked as beautiful as last she had seen her, as did her husband. The night before the tourney the Starks dined together once again in the Tower of the Hand.

          “Lady Margaery is with child again.” Rickon said in between bites of his pork. Cat would have reprimanded him for his horrendous table manners at such an old age, but both she and Ned were ecstatic with the news of another grandchild. They both beamed and forced Rickon to continue, “Robb would have sent a letter, but by the time they found out, we were to leave for the tourney anyways.”

          Arya and Sansa exchanged a small glance across the table with the mention of Margaery’s second pregnancy. The whispers that the Stark sisters were barren worsened with each moon since their weddings. Arya had no doubt the rumor had even reached her lady mother’s ears by then. Bran seemed to notice his two sister’s uneasiness, and he quickly changed the subject to betting who would win the jousting tournament. Rickon quickly caught on and bickered with Bran of how far Gendry would progress in the tournament, with Bran insisting that Gendry would win and Rickon saying that he was too old. Arya was never more thankful for her younger brothers.

The morning of the tourney when Arya awoke, the only thing she was able to register was her throbbing head and unsettled stomach. No matter which way she turned in their featherbed, her head nor her stomach would settle. Gendry awoke next to her and insisted to call off the tourney under her health, but Arya was enough in her right mind to refuse, and assure that she was alright. He was too stubborn to believe her, but before he could protest even more, she was whisked away by her ladies in waiting to her mother’s solar to be pampered for the tourney.

          After dismissing Arya’s bothersome ladies in waiting, Cat went to care for Arya’s bath while Sansa finished readying herself. Arya would have shooed them away and insisted that she needn’t be pampered, but it had been so long since she was with both her sister and mother like this, and she felt too nostalgic to make them stop. For Gendry’s first nameday as King, the seamstress sewed a special dress for Arya. The fabric was similar to what her handmaidens and ladies at Court wore, but the skirts were more sweeping and elegant in a pale blue shade. Cat then secured a large golden embroidered metal decoration at her waist, acting as a belt. The dress was terribly fancy with too many details for Arya to care for, while Sansa’s was too plain for her own beauty. It was the hundredth time upon thousands that Arya realized it should have been Sansa in Arya’s position.

          The tourney was grand and the attendants were even more festive given the occasion. Arya sat in the tallest row in the makeshift stadium with Sansa and her husband at her right and her brothers at her left. Cat and Ned sat on the other side of the separated booth behind their children. Arya noticed that Jaime hadn’t enlisted in the tourney, and instead stood guard near his sister, who was far away from the Hand’s booth. When the time came for Gendry’s first round against a squire serving House Frey, Gendry easily unseated the gangly young squire, and moved up the ranks. When the final round of the jousting matches came, Gendry and an anonymous knight were the last two. Rickon and Bran bickered and placed bets on who would be unseated. Arya almost wanted to join, but thought it would be wrong to bet against her husband. She’d watched the mystery knight compete in his other matches and he’d easily unseated every knight and ser he was against, including the Knight of Flowers and the Hound. She couldn’t tell much of the mystery knight under his heavy armor, but he seemed willowy compared to Gendry’s muscled build. She was sure Gendry was stronger with brute strength, but the mystery knight was swifter and more agile.

          Arya was on the edge of her seat as Gendry and the mystery knight readied themselves to charge at each other. Sansa mistook Arya’s unease for nervousness rather than anticipation, and gently took her sister’s hand in her own, and encouraged her lord husband and Bran to cheer for the King. The ladies and knights who attended were in an uproar, violently cheering for their King. It may have been that they were excited for a marvelous joust, but it was the first time that Arya realized that they adored him. Gendry was a true and just King, the best the Seven Kingdoms had seen since many ages.

          As the King and the mystery knight charged at each other, the sunlight glinted against the mystery knight’s armor, making him seem surreal. Gendry and the mystery knight both readied and tilted their lances at the same time as they charged at each other with dreamlike speed. Her breath caught as they impacted each other, but both of their lances caught at each other’s shields. They readied themselves for a second round, and their horses pounded against the dirt beneath them as their riders jutted their feet, readying to charge at each other once more. At the final run, it was Gendry who was unseated by the mystery knight.

          Heavy hearted shouts of unhappiness broke from the crowd as their King fell off his horse. Arya watched wide eyed as Gendry fell still on the ground for a moment under the impact, but the mystery knight handed Gendry his own arm and helped the King to his feet. Gendry thanked the knight with kindness and congratulated him graciously. He held the knight’s hand in the air, letting the crowd recognize the mystery knight as the true victor. Cheers eventually sang from the crowd as Gendry had encouraged. Arya finally stood and applauded the knight as well, along with the others in her booth as Rickon cheered with utmost fervor.

A squire clumsily stepped from the stadium and handed the mystery knight the wreath of flowers for him to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty. Gendry had specifically ordered for it to be made with pale ice blue winter roses with the intents to win and crown Arya, but all the ladies in the crowd squirmed with the desire of being crowned. Arya took her seat again next to Sansa. The two sisters sighed simultaneously; the sister who had never been crowned but always dreamed so, and the girl who had been crowned once as a jest.

With the crown of winter roses in his hand, the knight looked to the crowd, and stepped past Cersei and up the stadium’s levels. It wasn’t until he was on the highest level of the stadium seats that Arya’s heart sank. Her eyes widened and her heartbeat quickened. The only attendants seated at the highest level were she, her sister and her husband, and her brothers. Unless the knight was to turn around, he intended to crown a married woman. With each footstep the knight took, her heartbeat rang louder in her ears. It wasn’t until the knight placed the laurel on Sansa’s lap that all the smiles died. Sansa gasped as she gripped the winter wreath in her porcelain fingers. The thorns of the roses attached to her gold gown. After the initial shock passed from her face she had half the right mind to refuse the crown as she was already promised and wed, but the knight had already rode off having claimed his prize.

* * *

 

The rest of the events carried on without trouble, but the attendants were still unsettled by the previous crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty. For once since Sansa’s return, Arya remembered why she was so annoyed by her sister as a child back in Winterfell. Sansa would not shut up about it, and every word that spewed out of her mouth either had to be about how risqué and indecent it was for the knight to crown her while she was married and sitting right next to her husband, or it would be of how beautiful the flower wreath was and how it surely complimented her Tully eyes and gold dress. Arya was sure Renly was getting tired of it as well, as he later excused himself to sit closer to the events with the excuse that he couldn’t see. Arya’s own headache from earlier seemed to return along with her stomach’s lurching with each word Sansa spoke.

“Shut up,” Arya ordered, clutching her stomach.

“ _Arya_ ,” Sansa said, obviously offended, but then noticed that her sister was in pain. Before anyone could react, Arya darted off the stands and as far away from the crowds as she could before pressure built in her abdomen, slowly lurching itself out of her mouth as she vomited whatever she ate to break her fast. When she tried to clean herself as best she could and return to the crowd, she sighed when she saw her mother and sister waiting for her. No doubt Sansa ran to fetch their mother as Arya ran off. Arya was sure Gendry did not see her run off the stands, as he was sitting next to his uncle near the bottom.

“Are you alright?” Cat addressed Arya while rubbing her shoulder and smoothing down her hair as she did when she was a child.

“Yes, I am fine, mother.” Arya promised.

“No, you were obviously sick. I saw you.” Sansa argued, unable to give up. Arya sent her sister a murderous glare, but it was too late as her mother was already bombarding her with meaningless and bothersome questions.

“When was the last you had your moon’s blood, my dear?” Her mother finally asked after practically a dozen questions. Arya’s head perked up as she caught onto what she was suggesting. Arya wished she could answer her mother, but she honestly did not remember.

“I- I don’t remember.” Arya stuttered, trying to remember the last she had bled. Sansa gasped before a warm smile grew and brightened her face, a smile even wider than when she finally accepted that her dream had come true as being crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. Her mother smiled all knowingly and chuckled after thanking the Gods, the Old and the New.

“I believe that you are with child, my sweet.”


	12. The Mother, the Crone, the Stranger

         That night, Arya sat on the floor of her and Gendry’s shared solar alone, stroking Nymeria’s grey fur. Her wolf reminded her and renewed the ache in her heart which longed for Winterfell, her true home. Her brothers’ return only made the longing even deeper. The last time Arya had been with Nymeria alone was when Gendry was away during the Greyjoy Rebellion for comfort and company. Now, Arya was with her wolf with the means to clear her head. The tourney’s feast was still ongoing as the night grew later, and Arya knew her sister would reprimand her next morn for excusing herself so early, but she did not care at this point. Gendry tried to excuse himself as well, but Arya took none of it, and practically forced him back to the feast, allowing him to enjoy himself on his own nameday. He tried to tell her that he would be happy if she would stay with him for his nameday, but she only laughed and called him stupid.

          “I’m pregnant,” Arya whispered out loud for only her wolf to hear to test how it sounded. Her stomach lurched again, and she shook her head. The words did not sound right resonating from her lips, and her wolf cocked her own head up from Arya’s lap. Arya laughed and ruffled her wolf’s fur even more. “I know, it doesn’t sound right, does it?”

          Arya couldn’t imagine herself with a bawling child in her hands begging to be nursed. The only thing she imagined herself with in her hands was a sword. _Then again,_ she reminded herself, _I never imagined myself married either._ Arya sighed as she fixed her posture in deep thought. The only time she had ever held Jessamine, Robb and Margaery’s child and her own niece, she had not felt the compassion her mother told her she would feel when she would hold a babe. Nothing in her heart clicked or swayed, and as soon as the babe started wailing, Arya was quick to hand her back to Margaery. Children did not like her, and she had never thought to be with a child herself.

          “I am pregnant,” Arya announced, louder this time, testing which was best to tell Gendry.

          “ _What_?”

          Arya turned to see Gendry leaning by the open doorway of their solar, which she was so in a trance when she walked in that she neglected to close. He must have followed her from the feast, despite her wishes for him to stay. His ice blue eyes were wide and his mouth left slightly open. Arya’s heart started to race and her stomach did another turn, although she wasn’t sure if it was from the nausea.

          “I’m pregnant.” She repeated a final time with a small shrug as if it was not a big deal. Gendry treated it as anything but. Nymeria had to raise her head from Arya’s lap in haste as Gendry raced to her and hoisted her up in his arms and kissed her with all the love he’d ever held for her. She had never seen him happier since his return from the Rebellion, and that was what put her heart at ease for a short while. All would be fine.

* * *

 

          The next morning they had lain together with more love and fervor than they had ever before. The thin linens on their featherbed was tangled between them, and the rays of sun was already filtering through their window when Gendry turned on the bed to kiss her neck. She hummed in response as he brought her from her slumber. She thought he would tell her that he was going to leave for court, so she could hold him to her.

          “Stay with me.” She commanded.

          “I am afraid it is you who will leave me.” Gendry laughed as Arya’s eyebrows knit together. “A handmaid came, asking on Sansa’s behalf for you to visit her chambers.”

“Let her wait.” Arya groaned as she turned back around and wrapped the blankets around her.

Gendry shrugged and got up from their shared featherbed to dress himself. “Do as you bid, but I am going to court.”

After a while of lying in bed, Arya sighed and got up to dress herself as well. She took one of Gendry’s tunics and trousers and pulled them on without a second thought. She then remembered how her sister was crowned Queen of Love and Beauty the night before, during the tourney for Gendry’s nameday. “Who do you think was the mystery knight?”

Gendry paused breaking his fast to consider the tourney. “I am not sure. But whoever he was, he was strong.”

“It could have been a girl.” Arya said in a matter-of-fact tone. She and her brothers often argued and theorized who the Knight of the Laughing Tree was when they were children. She had always insisted it was a girl instead of a man, and her brothers laughed.

 Instead of laughing, Gendry considered her idea, before dismissing it as her brothers had as well. “It couldn’t have been. She would have wanted to keep low and be smarter than to crown a married woman as the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Arya nodded as well, admitting that it must have been a man, as troublesome as it all was. After Gendry left, Arya left as well on her way to the chambers Sansa and Renly used during their stay. When she entered, she found her sister sitting on her featherbed, embroidering a fabric richly dyed gold and black. When she saw Arya, unlike she had expected, Sansa scowled and stood from her chair with her hands on her hips, a stance Sansa often took as a child when Arya did something wrong.

“I asked Shae to fetch you at dawn, and you come so long after!” Sansa complained.

“I only awoke now, I assure you.” Arya yawned to add extra emphasis. With an exasperated sigh, Sansa threw her hands in the air giving up on the matter.

“Lady Olenna wishes to have tea with us.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Tea, how exciting. Are we going to embroider as well and talk of handsome lords while we’re at it?” Sansa’s face contorted as it did when they were children. Before her sister could say anything, Arya shook her head, as she did not want to argue solely after she awoke. She could already feel an impending headache, and she felt Sansa’s rage would only feed the pain. “Oh, never mind. Let us have tea with the Queen of Thorns. Spare me your lectures, I’ll go with you.”

Seeing as neither of them wanted an argument, Sansa nodded but her eyes narrowed on Arya’s choice of clothing. “You are not having tea with Lady Olenna dressed like that. What would she think of us?”

“She would think that I like to dress practical and comfortably.” Arya yawned again and waved away her hand. Sansa took none of her sister’s attitude and instead dressed her in one of her own dresses, as they were close enough to the same fitting. Arya was too tired to argue and shoo Sansa’s prodding hands, and instead let her sister dress her like a doll. Arya noticed that the gown Sansa had chosen was slate grey, the color of their father’s house.

“You’re not wearing your crown of flowers.” Arya noticed as she looked in the looking glass while Sansa laced her sister’s bodice. Indeed, the wilting crown of winter roses lied untouched on the table next to her featherbed.

“Of course I’m not,” Sansa said and looked behind Arya’s reflection in the looking glass while she laced up her gown. “It would be a slight to my husband if I were to wear the crown another man gave me.”

After Sansa finished getting Arya dressed and fixed her hair, Arya looked at her sister again, remembering what she decided the night before, while with Nymeria. “Sansa,” Arya said, interrupting her from opening the door so they could go to the gardens, “About what mother told me at the tourney…”

Sansa’s face softened when she remembered her sister’s condition, her Tully eyes more sympathetic and loving and a weak smile played at her lips. Arya wondered how Sansa must have felt, being the elder sister and her younger sister was with child first. Arya wondered if Sansa felt scorn for her, with the whispers around Storm’s End that she was barren, while her own sister was with child. “Of course…”

“You cannot tell anyone, or at least not yet.”

          “Why ever not? We should celebrate.” Sansa remarked. Sansa was right; with news of a new heir, there should be celebrations held and the Keep should be blissful, but Arya had lived in the South long enough to learn that the walls had ears. She did not know yet who to trust, and the last thing she wanted was for there to be plotting against her child who was not even born yet.

          “I’m waiting for the right time to announce it, or at least until I’m sure and I start showing.” Arya answered, as she did not want to explain to her sister as she did not trust her own husband’s small council. With Gendry’s reign he kept everyone from his father’s council, and it was no secret that there were spies and whispers held in court. Sansa only nodded and promised that people would not learn from her. With that, the sisters walked to the gardens of the Red Keep to meet with the Queen of Thorns, the grandmother of Robb’s lady wife. As they walked around the maze of the gardens, Arya strained her ears as she followed her sister, listening to the vague whispers of the ladies in waiting of the Dragon Queen in the east.

When they discovered Olenna’s abode, they found a frail old lady dressed in a deep lush green gown with gold flowers embroidered on her skirts and a royal turban on her head. She ushered for the sisters to sit next to her, and Arya noticed a stack of bright lemoncakes on a silver platter, waiting for Sansa to gush over how thoughtful it was.

          “I am much less boring than those others,” Lady Olenna said as she sat, speaking of the other ladies in waiting who flocked the gardens. “Have you met my son, the Lord of Highgarden?”

          “I haven’t had the pleasure.” Sansa said as she gracefully selected a tiny lemoncake and nibbled a bite off.

          “No great pleasure, believe me. He is a ponderous oaf. His father was an oaf as well. My husband, the late Lord Luthor managed to ride off a cliff while hawking. They say he was looking up at the sky and paying no mind where his horse was taking him.” Olenna said, not minding that she was speaking ill of her late husband. Sansa looked to her lap embarrassed, but Arya almost wanted to laugh. The Queen of Thorns was no less than what she expected. Arya wondered if it had been a pure accident that Olenna’s husband managed to ride himself off a cliff. “Tell me; are your husbands as foolish as mine was?”

          “Gendry is as foolish and stubborn as a bull.” Arya said, for she did not have to censor her words around Olenna. Sansa gasped and was ready to reprimand her sister, but Lady Olenna laughed.

          “The Baratheons tend to have that trait about them.” Olenna nodded in agreement as she took a lemoncake for herself. “Tell me, Lady Sansa, is _your_ Baratheon husband the same?”

          “Renly is very brave and handsome and gallant and as regal as a stag.” Sansa said almost on default. Arya almost wanted to kick Sansa’s foot under the table for being so foolish as to sound so automatic. Olenna saw right through her lie.

          “Ah yes, all Baratheons are stags. Tell me, is he good hearted and clever?” Olenna asked impatiently. Arya wished she could save her sister without being too obvious, but they were both trapped by the Queen of Thorns. Arya wondered why Olenna took a sudden interest in Sansa’s husband. Before Sansa could reply, the Tyrell’s servant boy who travelled with them for the tourney interrupted to place a silver platter of biscuits. The old lady only took a glance at the biscuits and then frowned. “Bring me some cheese.”

          “The cheese will be served after the biscuits, my lady.” The boy said softly. His worried violet eyes quivered under the gaze of the Queen of Thorns.

          “The cheese will be served when I want it served. And I want it served now.” She commanded. The boy nodded and scurried away with his tail between his legs. She then looked back to Sansa, “Are you frightened child? No need for that. We are all women here; no harm will come to you.”

          “Renly… My lord husband he is…” Sansa struggled to find words. Right as Arya was about to swoop in and save her sister, the boy returned with godspeed and a platter of cheese in his hands. As Olenna shooed away the boy, the two sisters exchanged a quick glance. Before Olenna could persist any further into the meanings of Sansa and Renly’s relationship, a squire under Renly quickly made his way to the ladies and the Queen, and smoothly cut in.

          “My ladies, Your Grace,” He bowed his head and greeted them. Olenna frowned bitterly, upset that they were interrupted right before she was to crack the truth of Sansa’s marriage. He then turned to Sansa, “Lady Sansa, your lord husband is requesting me to escort you to ready for the trip back to Storm’s End. And Your Grace, the King has asked me to find you as well.”

          Sansa nodded, and then looked apologetically to Olenna. Before her mouth opened, Olenna shook her head. “No, go on, little bird. Give your lord husband my best.”

* * *

 

          Watching Sansa’s carriage travel from the gates of the Red Keep left a hole in Arya’s heart, as her brothers’ party had departed as well. Gendry stood next to her and after both caravans were out of sight, he wrapped his arm around his queen’s waist and kissed her, knowing that she longed for her family.

          Within a fortnight, a letter arrived from Dorne telling of the requested visit from Myrcella Martell. She was wedded before Gendry left for the Rebellion, and she wanted to visit her home again before her child was to arrive. Of course her request was accepted with pleasure, but Arya could not help but remember Bran’s own request to squire under a lord in Dorne. She wondered if he was reunited with his love.

          The next morning she awoke to an empty bed once more. After she broke fast by herself, she decided to walk in the gardens. She had been too fatigued lately to practice her water dance, and Gendry was in the throne room. Part of her wanted to go in the throne room for once, and sit beside him to protect him and learn the secrets of the Red Keep, but no motivation resided in her that day. Gendry had given strict orders to the guards to stay close to Arya lately, much to her displeasure. It took a while before she managed to swat the guards away from the gardens so she could find peace in solitude. It wasn’t long before her peace was disrupted by a spider in the garden.

          “Your Grace,” Varys bowed his head as he greeted Arya.

          “Lord Varys,” Arya acknowledged him.

          He smiled and walked beside her to through the gardens. “It is a beautiful day for walking the gardens, is it not?”

          “Yes, but I was not expecting company.” Arya said smoothly as she overlooked the thorns on the nearest shrubbery which threatened to shrivel the roses it thrived on.

          “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it has been a while since I had time to myself to enjoy the simple pleasures as walking in the gardens. It has been a busy life ever since the Greyjoy Rebellion has been crushed and your husband has returned.”

          “Ah yes, I pity you, my lord. The job as Master of Whisperers must be tiring.” Arya said. She was sure her sarcasm was dripping through her façade, as she hoped Varys would get to the point of why he visited her.

          “Not as tiring as the job as Queen, I reckon.” Varys smiled as they passed through the shrubbery. “Your husband is doing a fine job fulfilling his duties as King. Some may say that he is the most beloved King the Iron Throne has seen in ages, and as good as a King as Rhaegar would have been.”

          “Ah yes, Rhaegar Targaryen.” Arya said, recounting the tales and history of Robert’s Rebellion. “He was loved by the smallfolk as well, and a brilliant crowned prince. But then he took Lyanna, and Robert killed him for it.”

          “A shame how quickly power can shift.” Varys said coolly. Arya assumed he was getting to his point. “They say that during the Sack of King’s Landing, Gregor Clegane raped and murdered Elia Targaryen, along with her children.” He made a point to eye Arya’s belly. The silent words were understood; he knew of her pregnancy. She was a fool to believe she could hide it for long from the Spider.

          “Are you here to give me history lessons, my lord?” She was done playing with Varys’s games, and she mistook his warnings as a threat to her and her child.

          “My birds sing to me songs of the Targaryen girl in the East. She is has already set sail, and she has an army with her along with three large and fully grown dragons.” He said. His whispers held words as dangerous as any weapon. She reckoned Gendry thought best to keep words of court away from her with the news of her pregnancy. He then leaned closer to his Queen and whispered low, “If the time comes and there is another Sack of King’s Landing, I have means to sneak you out of the city before so. Gendry would surely be on the battleground, but if not he can as well. You two are great rulers, and it would be a shame for history to repeat itself.”

          His words shook her. If the city was to be sacked and the Dragon Queen was to bring war to Westeros, there wasn’t a doubt that she intended to avenge her family and kill any Baratheon. She wondered if her child would be born by then, and if the Targaryen would spare the child, but she did not know why it would be right for a Dragon Queen to show kindness to any Baratheon.

          Arya wondered if Elia was offered a similar arrangement once as well, and if it was no accident that she wasn’t sneaked out of the Red Keep before the sacking.


	13. Long Live the Queen

         Within a moon, Myrcella arrived at court. Wedded and bedded, the Baratheon now Dornish princess was even more pregnant than Arya, and believed to give birth any day. When she arrived with her caravan on her Dornish sand steed pale as snow, she appeared as a beautiful mirage. Her skin was richly golden and tanned from the harsh sun in Dorne, and her flaxen hair seemed to glow. Since her wedding she lined kohl around her eyes and kept her hair as Arianne Martell had taught her. Myrcella was a true depiction of The Dornishman’s Wife. It was no mistake that Myrcella was a woman grown, and Cersei almost fainted out of shock as she greeted her own daughter. Arya was sure Cersei went mad soon after.

          The morning after Myrcella’s arrival, she sat with Arya in her solar. Gendry was as court per usual and Arya would have joined, but she wanted to spend a day with her old friend, the only kindness shown to her besides Gendry during her first visit to King’s Landing. They both sat together, Arya tapping the arm of her chair in boredom, and Myrcella embroidering a blanket for her babe. She noticed the cloth was orange, but with golden threads weaved through.

          Arya was never the type to host embroidery sessions nor tea sessions as she had always found it boring, and she still did, but she no longer contained the energy to practice her water dance or ride on her stallion like she used to. The babe which grew inside her took too much energy from her and sometimes she found herself weak and tired. Her stomach had swelled to a point where it could have been noticeable, but she wore the biggest clothes she could find, such as Gendry’s loose tunics. She knew that sooner rather than later she would have to clean out her court to find who she could trust before the pregnancy was officially announced.

          “I hope your marriage to my brother is a happy one.” Myrcella said without looking up from her work. The words sounded spiteful and suggested that her own marriage was anything but, yet she wore a warm smile on her lips as the sunlight poured through the window, shining on her. Arya almost forgot that all along it was Myrcella that pushed the couple to become closer, resulting in their traditional visits to Blackwater Bay.

          “Our marriage was a surprisingly joyful union, despite your brother being a bullheaded idiot.” Both the Queen and the Princess of Dorne laughed. “Tell me, what is Dorne like?”

          Myrcella sighed and leaned back in her seat. “It is even warmer than King’s Landing, and more beautiful. The people are wonderful, and oh you should meet Arianne Martell, the Heiress of Sunspear. She is beautiful and kind to me, and reminds me of you.”

          The comparison of herself to the Heiress of Sunspear was a laughable one. Arya did not think it was possible to compare her own beauty to one of a princess of Dorne. She did not brush aside Myrcella’s compliment, but instead laughed and inquired of how her own brother was faring in Dorne. Myrcella’s smile faltered the slightest, but returned as fast as it left.

          “Your brother enjoys Dorne as well. He squires under my husband, and they seemed to find an unlikely friendship.” To others her voice might have sounded convincing, but Arya was quick to see through. Arya hoped that her thoughts proved wrong.

* * *

 

                Within a fortnight, for whatever reason, Arya took it upon herself to fulfill her duties as Queen. She sat next to Gendry at court, and withstood the boredom for hours. Accompanied by Kingsguard, as was the only way Gendry would let her travel, Arya visited the orphans and bastards in Flea Bottom and handed out loaves of bread. She was as loved by the small folk as their King. Her father once commented on her new behavior, and she honestly did not know the answer. She thought mayhaps it was the babe inside her that carried out her new actions, or mayhaps she wanted her babe to live in a kinder world. Or it might have been under the influence of Myrcella’s presence.

          That evening when Gendry was at court, she took an absence and waited in her chamber to carry out her plan. Her handmaidens dressed her in a richly dyed gown which the seamstress had made especially for her, as she was certain the color brought out all of the Queen’s beauty. She ordered her handmaidens to fix her hair and apply kohl around her eyes. She felt as if she was readying herself for battle. She knew that men were more willing to do anything for a beautiful woman, so she readied herself as such. She asked for her hair to be done like her mother’s, with two braids at the crown of her head tied at the center. But her hair was left in a braid the night before and was wavy. She realized that she looked like a bad imitation of Margaery, and removed it at once. After she was properly made up, she dismissed her handmaidens and ordered one to fetch Grand Maester Pycelle. Soon after she dismissed her handmaidens, the old man limped towards her and greeted his Queen. She knew better than to trust his weak façade.

          “Is anything troubling you, Your Grace?” He asked her in a frail voice after she asked him to sit.

          “I am afraid I am getting headaches frequently now, and it seems they are getting worse.” Arya tried to sound pained as she massaged her temples. It was no lie after all; the babe was toying with her health.

          “Of course, Your Grace.” He sympathized with her pain, “I agree that pains in the head are the worst. I know of a tonic that may aid you in your predicaments, but it is not ready; you must give me a few days to fetch the proper herbs.”

          “Thank you, Grand Maester.” Arya smiled graciously as she saw her sister do many times. She wondered if it was believable enough. “I am so grateful to have a man of such vast knowledge and wisdom on my side.” Her smile slowly vanished and she pretended to seem troubled as she looked out the window and to Blackwater Bay. The old man seemed to notice her discontent, and he inquired on so.

          “Is everything alright, Your Grace?”

          She frowned and furrowed her brows gently and tried to look somewhat weak. “I can trust you, Pycelle, can I not?”

          “Of course, Your Grace. I am sworn to serve the Crown.”

          Arya nodded and cleared her voice as if it was a troubling subject. “Surely, you have heard the rumors of the Targaryen in the east with her armies.” She looked up to see that Pycelle nodded in agreement. “These are perilous times, and if war shall come, the Crown must forge new alliances. These alliances must often be sealed in matrimony.”

          “Matrimony…” The old man grumbled in agreement. She took it as a sign to carry on.

          “I am intending to broker an alliance between Prince Joffrey and Lady Elinor Tyrell.” Arya said, and she was proud when she realized the words flowed smoothly off her tongue. She sounded as much a Queen as she looked.

          “ _Elinor_ Tyrell?” Pycelle asked, dumbstruck. It was known that the lady was only a member of a junior branch of Highgarden, but she was still a Lady of the Reach.

          “Yes, Elinor Tyrell. With the impending war that the Targaryen girl brings, we need to make sure that our city does not fall to starvation. The alliance with Highgarden will bring bounty to King’s Landing.” Arya confirmed. Pycelle nodded again, finally coming to an understanding. “But Lady Lannister must not know. I cannot have her meddling in affairs too important to the Realm”

          “Oh yes, of course.” The old man said. He then smiled to his Queen, with wrinkles formed around his eyes and a toothy grin, yet it did not look friendly at all. “I swear, Your Grace, that I shall be silent as the grave.”

* * *

 

          “Remember, Lady Lannister mustn’t know.” Arya warned, her voice as regal as she commanded so. Lord Varys sat stout on the chair beside her, and she was sure to keep his wineglass filled.

          “She must not know?” Varys laughed as he swayed the wine in his hand. “This conversation must be interesting.”

          “I plan to marry Prince Joffrey off to Arianne Martell of Dorne.”

          Varys arched an eyebrow. Arya was sure he saw through her. “Your Grace, do you not think she is a bit too old for the Prince?”

          “Ten years is not much.” She shrugged and poured a glass for herself. “We can both agree Joffrey is old enough for marriage, and I am sure an older wife will keep my dearest good-brother in line.”

           “We have already brokered an alliance with Dorne. Is one princess not enough?” Varys asked in regards of Princess Myrcella and Trystane Martell.

          “With the news of the Dragon Queen making her way to Westeros, we need all the assurance we can get that Dorne is on our side. We need to solidify the alliance, and take away any uneasiness between the two houses.” Arya explained, and she hoped that the Imp believed her enough. “But remember-”

          “Lady Lannister mustn’t know.” Varys finished her sentence for her. The eunuch did not seem trustworthy to her and even if he passed her test, she did not think it smart to line herself with him.

* * *

 

          “You must tell no one.” Arya said to Petyr Baelish, who sat across from her.

          “Tell no one… what, Your Grace?” Petyr cocked his head in false curiosity.

          “I intend to wed Prince Joffrey to Asha Greyjoy.” She sat with her back straight as a spear and she hoped she looked and sounded believable enough.

          “Your Grace, Asha is a Lady of the Iron Islands. Their Rebellion was just crushed. Do you not think the Prince should wed someone higher?” Littlefinger suggested softly.

          “Indeed, but we need to be assured that their loyalty remains truly with us.”

          “Yes, I suppose this is a smart match.” Littlefinger nodded and looked at his Queen. It was no mistake; she indeed was beautiful, as she had planned to make herself look so. The candlelight illuminated her Northern beauty, and she looked as dangerous and beautiful as any Queen should.  “I must admit, Your Grace, I was surprised yet flattered that you have requested my company tonight. I will not speak a word of your plans.”

           His words suggested something that made Arya want to cringe, but his tone meant otherwise. It was no secret that Littlefinger admired her mother, but she did not know just how far his admiration went. She would do well to keep her distance from Littlefinger.

* * *

 

          The next evening was the first night after Myrcella’s return to King’s Landing that Arya was alone in her solar, rather than in court. She deemed herself too weak that night, and told Gendry as such. He ordered for Ser Arys to guard their chambers as she regained her strength. It annoyed Arya that she was treated as a weak and fragile lady rather than the fierce Queen she was, but such matters had to be treated as so. Ser Arys was not too bad of a knight anyways; while Gendry was away during the Rebellion he was ordered to stay with Arya. They found a friendship of sorts, and some even started to call him a Queensguard.

          Her peace was immediately disrupted as the door of her chambers flew open and then slammed shut. She originally had no intents to check who so ferociously intruded her chambers until she heard a familiar sneer from beside her.

          “How dare you bind me to that Tyrell bitch.” Joffrey screamed at her. She immediately sat up in her bed, but did not think it necessary to stand.

          “It is pleasant to see you as well, good-brother.” Arya sighed. She wondered how Joffrey managed to pass Ser Arys.

          “You have no right-” Joffrey was prepared to unleash all his madness, but Arya was quick to interrupt. She remembered the King’s own proposal for herself and Gendry, and how much she hated the idea at first. This very plan went against her own beliefs that ladies should not be used as items for trade. If it was anyone else she would have revoked the betrothal under kindness. But there was no kindness in her heart for Joffrey.

          “Some might say this is your duty. Elinor is a Lady of Highgarden, and the alliance will bring wealth and bounty to both King’s Landing and The Reach.” Arya tried to explain the reasons behind the betrothal, but Joffrey did not want to listen.

          “I will tear you apart, and you will be sorry you ever crossed me, you Stark cunt.” He threatened. He started to move towards her bed, and she tried to move away. She was too weak at the moment to fight back, and if the foolish Prince intended to rape or strike her, she would not have been able to defend herself. She did not loathe the child inside her, but she abhorred how frail the babe made her. As he crawled towards Arya with fury, she slipped out and under him with the intent to kick him between his legs. Before she was about to try to hit Joffrey with whatever strength she still had, the door was slammed open once more, but it was Ser Arys Oakheart that entered. When he took in the scene before him of his Queen defending herself against the Prince, each person in the Queen’s chamber froze.

          “My Queen, is there anything wrong?” Ser Arys finally asked. Joffrey was foolish enough to try and move closer to Arya even under the supervision of Ser Arys, but she was quick to move away.

          “I am afraid Prince Joffrey is tired and needs to be escorted to his chambers.” She ordered. She might not have had her strength, but her words were just as frightening. As Ser Arys stepped towards Joffrey and took his arm, Joffrey pulled his arm away and snapped towards Arya.

          “I am _not_ tired.”

          All it took was a glare from Arya for Arys to grab Joffrey’s arm again to be escorted to his chambers. Only after they left did it don on Arya that she sent the Prince to bed without supper.

* * *

 

          The next evening, she took Ser Arys and her own husband to Grand Maester Pycelle’s chambers. Ser Arys would have been enough to subdue the old man if he ever tried to harm his Queen, but the presence of the King was only meant to daunt him more. However, Arya had only wanted him to stand outside so first she could do what she can to reveal his secrets before he was to be jailed. When Ser Arys knocked down the door to the old man’s chambers, it only revealed a naked whore on top of Pycelle, who was gingerly helping himself to her bosom. After Ser Aerys stormed in, the whore immediately flew off the old man and hid in the corner of the room.

          “What is the meaning of this?” Pycelle roared at the Kingsguard. It wasn’t until Arya followed behind Arys that the whore whimpered her apologies and tried to cover up herself and Pycelle started to panic. “Y-Your Grace!”

          Aerys gingerly removed the maester from his featherbed and brought him to kneel in front of Arya. The action was more meaningful than Arya asked for, and wanted, but the old man was already kneeling against his own accord.

          “You disappoint me, Grand Maester.” Arya shook her head and spoke as if she addressed a child.

          “I am your loyal servant, Your Grace.” Pycelle barked as he hung his head in mock shame.

          “So loyal that you told Lady Lannister my plans to sail Prince Joffrey to Highgarden?” Arya chided as she walked closer to the old oaf and sat in his chair.

          “No, never! I swear of it.” Pycelle’s voice shook as he tried to find a reasonable excuse, “It must have been that Spider, Varys! He cannot be trusted, Your Grace.”

          “Yes, but I told Lord Varys that I was giving the Prince to the Martells. I told Lord Baelish that I planned to marry him to Asha Greyjoy. I told no one that I was offering him to the Tyrells. No one but you.” Arya cocked her head. Before Pycelle could spit out another lie, Arya sighed again. She was growing tired of the old man’s games, and if she was going to get anywhere she would have to intimidate him. She turned to Ser Arys, “Ser, cut off his manhood.”

          The knight saw through the Queen’s bluff and pushed the old man down as if he was ready to follow through the act. Pycelle tried to shoo away the knight as he spoke, “All I did, I swear, I did it for House Lannister. Your good-mother’s house.” Arya was about to open her mouth and proclaim that she held no affection in her heart for Cersei, but then she remembered that she truly was the mother of her husband, and the grandmother of the child inside her. “It was all since the days of the Mad King.”

          Arya shook her head. She needed more. “I don’t like his beard.”

          Before Pycelle could react, Ser Arys had already grabbed the old man’s signature long white beard and shaved it off his chin. The old man truly started to whimper and plea, and Arya almost pitied him. She stood from his chair and looked down on him.

          “How many monarchs have you betrayed, Pycelle? King Robert, King Aerys…”

          “The Mad King… he was an evil one, I did a good deed.”

          “So you let the Lannisters sack the city and murder and rape Elia Martell?” Arya roared furiously. She did not know why all of a sudden she had become so interested in Elia Martell, and why she became so defensive over the dead woman.

          “No, never! I only opened the gates…”

          “And what of King Robert?” Arya asked him. Arys put a firm hand on the old man’s shoulder, ready to commit any more acts to get him to speak.

          “I did not kill him,”

          “Yes, but you let him die when you could have saved him!”

“It was all for the Lannisters! Everything I do is for the Lannisters!” Pycelle admitted finally. It was that moment that Gendry stormed in the room as well. When the old man saw the son of the man he only just professed to murdering, he wet whatever clothes he was wearing. “Your Grace, please, it was all for your mother’s house. I am a loyal servant.”

Gendry struck the old man, leaving a trail of blood on his cheek. Arya flinched when she realized the horrifying sheer strength he held. Gendry was never close to his father, but he was still his father. Arya could not imagine what she would have done if she just heard someone professing they murdered her own father. She feared she would have comitted much worse.

Arya nodded to Ser Arys and together he and the King grabbed the old man and dragged him out of his chambers, no doubt to be thrown in one of the black cells.

* * *

 

The next dawn, there was no time to waste. Immediately, Arya and Gendry announced her pregnancy to court, and when the sun was high and shining down on them, they both walked to the Sept of Baelor and announced the heir which grew inside her to the smallfolk who all rejoiced and celebrated with the utmost fervor. She could hear shouts chanting, “Long live the Queen!”

It was the first time Arya enjoyed her reign.

After Gendry returned to the Red Keep, Cat and Myrcella joined her in the Sept with appropriate guards and Bannermen and Ser Arys, where from there they travelled to Flea Bottom to hand out food to the orphans. It was all Myrcella’s idea, as she had done similar charity work in Dorne, but Arya could not help but to be reminded of Sansa and Margaery during their stay in King’s Landing. After so, they decided to go to the markets, where they were greeted by smiling and celebrating smallfolk. Once Cersei had warned her to stay away from them, but now she wondered why. They were harmless, and they treated her with kindness and they adored both her and Gendry.

Myrcella stopped in front of a stall that sold tea, and she was greeted by an old feeble woman who was eager to sell her tea to the Dornish Princess. Myrcella laughed and called both Cat and Arya to her, which made the guards follow as well. When Arya stepped closer to the woman she saw tanned skin and her clothing style was unfamiliar. She must have been from the Free Cities.

“Oh, Your Grace, what a pleasant surprise.” The woman bowed her head when she saw Arya and picked up a goblet of heated water and sprinkled in some tea leaves and a concoction of other ingredients. “You must try this, Your Grace. This is my finest tea yet, hailing from Meereen. I promise you, you will not regret trying this tea.”

“I am not accustomed to the taste of tea.”

 “I swear, this is sweeter than any tea you have ever tried, Your Grace! You might even change the way you think of tea after this one sip.”

Arya was about to refuse, but the old lady kept pestering her. “Oh alright, but only one sip.” Arya sighed as she took the cup in her hands. The tea had a strong herbal scent, and had a mirkish forest green hue, almost as green as the Tyrell’s color. Before Arya could bring it to her lips, Myrcella screamed and slapped the cup from Arya’s hands.

“Arya, that is moon tea!” Cella yelled as the cup shattered on the hard soil under them. Despite the attempted murderer, Arya wondered why her good-sister was so accustomed to the sight of the tea. The trader attempted to escape and pushed Arya down as she darted through the stalls. Myrcella and Cat helped Arya up and checked if she was alright as Jory Cassel and Ser Arys chased down the stalls and tackled the woman. Arya could hear one last cry from the woman’s lips before she took her own life with a dagger sheathed under her cloak.

“Long live the Targaryen Queen.”

* * *

 

During their travel returning to the Red Keep, she was cared for and treated like a weak child. She was constantly asked if she was alright, or if she felt dizzy, or if the baby was still okay. She had grown tired of their worrisome remarks, and she was brought in front of Gendry as if she committed a crime. After her mother relayed to him what had happened, his soft blue eyes grew as cold as ice. He dismissed everyone else from the room and wished to only speak to Arya. She could not help but remember when he struck Pycelle, but she reminded herself that she was acting insane. Gendry was not his father, and he had done so much to prove that.

“Arya, how could you be so careless?” Gendry reprimanded her.

“You sound like my mother.” Arya said. She knew he only acted so because he loved and worried about her, but he needn’t worry. She was more capable of protecting herself than he assumed. “I could have handled it.”

“No, you couldn’t have!” Gendry yelled. She wanted to cower from his fury, but she held her ground. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself before speaking again. “Arya, I know that you are strong and not like normal women. I know that you could have defended yourself, the dagger I gifted you is proof enough. But now that you are with child, you won’t have your strength. Please, don’t throw yourself into dangerous situations.”

Arya stuck her nose in the air defiantly. “I was _not_ throwing myself in a dangerous situation, and I could have handled it!”

“Stop being so stubborn!”

“Stop treating me like I’m some sort of frail doll!”

Before Gendry could retaliate, their shouts were interrupted by an open door. A small squire walked in, and Arya noticed he was one of the men that accompanied Myrcella when she arrived. Both King and Queen converted their anger to the interruption and held their cold gazes on the innocent squire. The boy almost ran away, but he spoke in a shaky voice, “Er… forgive me, I was knocking but you did not hear me…”

“Yes, what is it?” Gendry asked impatiently. He tried to sound kind, but his tone from earlier had been preserved.

 “Your Grace, your sister has gone into labor.”

* * *

 

With haste, Arya was rushed to the birthing room and was expected to help while Gendry waited outside. When she stepped in she was greeted by an army of midwives and her own mother, all prepared to help deliver the Dornish Princess’s child. Arya did not know anything on how to help a woman through childbirth, and she did not want to see her friend through horrible pain. Before she could ask her mother as to why she was summoned inside, Cat shook her head and asked to dampen one of the cloths and press it against Myrcella’s forehead. Myrcella held Arya’s free hand in a vice like grip, forbidding it to move.

Her Lannister eyes held too much fear for Arya to just walk away from. She was needed there. It wasn’t long before Cersei came storming in the room. She ordered Cat and Arya to leave, saying that only the mother and the midwives should help with the birth, but Myrcella begged for them to stay. Reluctantly, Cersei bitterly obliged and allowed them to stay, but only because her daughter wished so.

As the hours donned by, Myrcella’s screams grew louder and more horrifying. Cat asked Arya to do multiple tasks throughout the evening, and she was never free. She was told to put cloths under Myrcella, and pat her forehead with a cool towel so she won’t develop a fever, and had to relay orders to the rest of the midwives. Cersei held her other hand as Cat told her to breathe in specific patterns. It was all dizzying, and Myrcella looked miserable. Arya found her less excited for her own child’s birth.

The birth continued throughout the night, and it wasn’t until the first rays of dawn reached the top of Aegon’s High Hill that the child was finally delivered. After the chord connecting the child to the mother was cut and the child was cleaned and wrapped in the blanket Myrcella was embroidering earlier, Myrcella cuddled the babe to her chest. It was a sight of revelations, seeing a mother first holding her infant. Arya could see the fresh tears in Myrcella’s eyes as she cooed over the babe and held her closer.

After Cersei held the child, and after Cat passed the child back to Myrcella, she dismissed everyone but Arya. Cersei was going to protest, but she insisted. After they left the room, Myrcella let Arya hold the baby herself. The babe was heavier than she expected, but the blanket Myrcella embroidered covered too much that Arya nor anyone that first held the child could not see the babe. Before Arya was to pull the first layer of the blankets away, Myrcella put a hand on Arya’s.

“Her name is Aryanne.” She said. Arya nodded at first, believing it was from Arianne’s namesake, Myrcella’s friend in Dorne, until Myrcella spelled it out for her. Arya did not know what to say. Instead of speaking, she unraveled the first layer of the orange blanket off the newborn, revealing Stark grey eyes staring back at her. Her guesses were right all along.

In her arms she held the daughter of Bran Stark and Myrcella Martell, Aryanne Sand, a bastard of Dorne.


	14. Winter is Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is a bit rushed in this chapter, but there were specific points I had to put in.  
> I would also like to formally apologize in advance for the abrupt chapter ending do not kill me please.

Long after Myrcella returned to her home in Dorne, Elinor Tyrell arrived to finalize the betrothal between her and Joffrey. Elinor was small and willowy with long curly brown hair and bright Tyrell amber eyes. She was kind and gentle, and Arya almost wanted to call off the betrothal. She had assumed that Elinor had thorns as sharp as Margaery’s, but she was wrong. This flower was innocent and pretty, and a lady through and through. She reminded Arya of Sansa before her doomed marriage. Arya made sure that Elinor was kept away from Joffrey as much as she can, and Sansa helped, as did Ser Arys. Sansa invited the Tyrell to tea and walks through the garden, and Arya made sure Ser Arys was with Lady Elinor whenever she was alone.

          The evening after Elinor and Joffrey’s betrothal was made official, Arya looked at her rusted reflection in the looking glass. Ever since she had left Winterfell Arya always noticed her father’s aging. His beard, once a chestnut stubble, was silver. Her mother, once a beautiful lady, was still comely, but age defied her. Arya never bothered to look at her own reflection, with fear of what her own years did to her. The last time she examined herself in a looking glass was her own wedding ceremony, and even then it was under the mask of makeup and powders Sansa preferred to use. Her brothers could no longer call her Arya Horseface, and even _she_ had to admit that to herself. She looked anything but. Her nose seemed less pudgy since she left Winterfell so long ago if it was possible, and her neck longer and eyes even a darker stormier grey. Her stomach was almost as large as Myrcella’s when she arrived at King’s Landing, and the thought made Arya uneasy. She was ready to give birth within a moon or so, whether she was prepared or not.

          Before Myrcella left King’s Landing, she hid and cared for Aryanne herself until the babe’s eyes shifted to at least a dark brown tone. Myrcella thanked the gods, the Old and the New, and told Arya when she asked that it was quite common for a baby’s eye to darken some time after birth. If anyone inquired, she could argue and say the eyes must be from somewhere in the Martell line, with their dark Dornish eyes. Myrcella acted and treated the babe as a trueborn child between her and Trystane, and no one dared to question her. Arya assumed even the guards sent with her from Dorne were intimidated by the Dornish Princess.

          Arya’s thoughts of her good-sister’s wellbeing were interrupted when she heard ungraceful shuffling from outside her door. She wasn’t surprised to see Gendry emerge into their solar unnanounced not far after. He bore the decorations he was forced to and expected to wear at court, and as soon as the door was closed behind him he removed them with a sigh. When he noticed Arya in front of the looking glass, he laughed.

          “And since when did my queen start picking at her reflection in the looking glass?” Gendry smirked as he walked behind her, a hand soothing out her sore back.

          “Ever since you got your Queen pregnant, stupid.” Arya rolled her eyes at Gendry in the reflection, hoping he would notice.

          She felt proud when he noticed her attitude in the reflection but instead he laughed and put his hand on her swelled belly. Not too long ago, she felt her child move for the first time. The experience frightened and amazed her, and she went running to her mother the second after. When Arya told Gendry, he was upset that he did not feel it. Ever since, whenever they found time to be together, which was scarce, he would rub her belly to see if he would get some sort of response.

          “She doesn’t like me.” Gendry scowled.

          “ _She_? You have already decided the sex of our child?” Arya raised an eyebrow. Most wives would have found it offensive if their husband assumed their first child would be a daughter. It told them that he thought they weren’t strong enough to bear sons. Instead, Arya was only intrigued.

          “Well, she has to be a girl. She’s already as stubborn as you.”

          “Idiot,” Arya mumbled as she pushed him away and tried to act offended. “ _I_ think he’s a boy. His kicks are strong, and my mother said my stomach looks how hers did when she birthed my brothers.”

          “Ah yes, our little son, I can see it now. He will be stubborn like you, but brave. We can teach him how to fight, and we can visit Storm’s End and Winterfell and show him the Godswood and…”

          “And he will be King.” Arya looked at her feet and whispered. They could not do any of that. Their child is the heir to the Throne, and will bear the duties that come with the role. Gendry sensed Arya’s unease and put a hand on her shoulder. “Who even knows, now that the Targaryen Queen is waging war.”

          “Arya, you needn’t worry about anything. We’ll be fine.”

          It was a beautiful lie. They embraced each other with her head on his chest. She held him tight, as if she could never touch him again. Arya wanted to cherish the moment, for she knew chaos was coming for them. Perhaps it was the winter her father always talked about, but she doubted it. The Targaryen meant to reclaim what was taken from her with fire and blood.

* * *

 

          Within a moon Sansa arrived at court. If people were to inquire, she would sing her song that she wanted to visit the South once more. With the agreement from Arya and Gendry, Renly sent Sansa to King’s Landing to “be with her sister”. He was preparing for war, and if and when the dragons were to attack Storm’s End, he wanted his lady wife from harm’s way, no matter how bad the smallfolk perceived it as, or how awful their marriage conditions were. Renly genuinely cared for Sansa, but not the way a man should care for his wife.

          When Sansa arrived, she greeted the King and Queen with all smiles, despite the danger looming over the Kingdoms. Arya thought maybe Sansa wanted to distract everyone from the war and show them kindness, or perhaps _she_ was the one who wished to forget. Her auburn hair darkened and she looked like her mother, a Tully through and through. When she eyed Arya’s belly, she almost squealed with delight.

          Sansa’s false joy during her stay at court was a distraction for some, for a time, until word arrived of the Dragons’ Landing in Dragonstone and Storm’s End. Half of Daenerys’s army was in Dragonstone reclaiming her land, and the other half was with her in the Stormlands with the intents to eventually lay siege to Storm’s End. The Dragon Queen’s army had already raided Bronzegate. Apparently the court’s assumptions were wrong all along. It wasn’t only the Dragon Queen, but there was her nephew, Aegon Targaryen, the son of Elia, and the self proclaimed Dragon King currently in Dragonstone. Gendry sent a portion of his men to help defend the two lands; half to Storm’s End and half to Dragonstone. Panic arose at court, and Arya was thankful for Sansa’s ability to savor peace in the Keep. While Gendry was in his Small Council meetings and rallying his Kingsguard in the days after the announcement, Sansa was helping to calm the ladies at court, hosting tea and embroidery sessions and keeping the panic at bay. Sometimes they would visit the Sept of Baelor together, and others Sansa would bring them walking in the gardens, all the while distracting them from the real distress.

          Before Gendry was going to make the decision to leave the Red Keep himself and help defend his uncles, a raven arrived with word of the surrender of Stannis Baratheon to the Targaryens. He wisely bent the knee before Aegon laid waste to his entire army, but to the rest of the Kingdoms he was branded as a traitorous coward. When word arrived of the fall of Dragonstone and the attack on Storm’s End, not even Sansa could calm court.

          When the first tragedy of war reached the ears of Catelyn and Ned Stark, Cat almost got on her horse right then and rode to Winterfell and ordered for Bran to return to the North. Ned, Sansa, and Arya tried to convince her not to, but Cat shook her head stubbornly.

          “Rickon is in Winterfell, and Bran is in Dorne defenseless. I do not trust him being alone in Dorne, and my youngest son needs his mother.” Cat trembled as she spoke. She was departed from her youngest child for too long, and it was wearing on her.

          “Mother, Rickon is grown. He can fend for himself. And he has Robb as well. Do you not trust Robb?” Sansa rubbed Cat’s shoulder as she tried to comfort her mother.

          “I trust Robb, but Rickon needs his mother.” Cat shook her head again and looked to her husband with hopes that he would agree with her. “But Bran needs to return to Winterfell, no one can deny that.”

          “The Kingsroad must be perilous now, at the early time of war. Do you really wish for Bran to travel during the first battles of war? By the time he reaches the North, who knows what might happen by then.” Arya tried to convince Cat.

          That night Arya decided to sleep with Sansa in her bed in the Tower of the Hand. While Ned was deep asleep as well, Cat looked out the window overlooking the moon’s reflection on the murky Blackwater Bay. She longed for her two youngest sons. She wanted them to be in her arms again, and to ensure their safety, but she had to stay. She was a Stark, a wolf. She had to be brave.

* * *

 

          When the two Stark sisters awoke, they found the Tower of the Hand emptied. The sun was already raised high above the Bay, and King’s Landing was bustling, trying to trade their goods for food before the war came to them. They assumed Ned and Cat were already doing their daily duties as well and they did not want to wake them, but before the two sisters emerged from their bed, still half asleep, a member of the Kingsguard entered the solar. She recognized him as Ser Arys, the only member of the Kingsguard she truly trusted. She greeted him with a groggy smile, but his face was grim.

          “What happened?” Arya asked. Ser Arys was not one to be grim on many occasions, and it was like a bucket of ice water to her. Sansa awoke as well next to her, and sat up also looking at the Kingsguard expectantly.

          “The King requests your presence in his solar.” He relayed his orders slowly. Before Arya could help herself off her sister’s featherbed, he shook his head. “Both of you.”

          Sansa looked at her sister with wide eyes, as if she expected Arya to answer what the emergency was. Sansa hurried off the featherbed and tied a robe around her before helping Arya off the bed as well. Ser Arys tried to rush them both as fast as they could down the stairs of the Tower of the Hand and through the halls, but Arya could only succumb to a slow waddle. When they reached their shared chambers, they were both left alone by Ser Arys who guarded the door. Gendry looked from the window and turned to the two sisters. His ice blue Baratheon eyes looked to Sansa with the utmost sympathy. His eyebrows were furrowed and his jaw clenched as if he was trying to keep calm. A parchment clutched in her husband’s hands. When Sansa eyed the parchment which would reveal her fate, he shook his head solemnly.

          “Storm’s End has fallen.” Gendry told her, his voice as hard as stone.

          Sansa shook her head and closed her eyes while Arya embraced her and did her best to soothe her sister as she had seen her mother do when she cared for Bran and Rickon. Arya waited for the tears to fall, but Sansa forced herself not to mourn.

          Renly Baratheon was dead. Sansa was a widow of war.

* * *

 

          Sansa spent the rest of the day with Ned and Cat. Her mother combed her long auburn hair as she once did in Winterfell, and her father shook his head grimly. There was no doubt he blamed himself for the downfall of his daughter. Sansa was a widow, and a young and beautiful one at that. Soon when the war would end, suitors would be lined up for her hand, suitors who had no regard that her maidenhead was already broken, under false assumptions. Truly, Sansa was still as innocent as the Mother, but only she and her younger sister knew that.

          Arya did not dare to enter her sister’s chambers that night. After the initial shock was gone, and rage had clouded Sansa’s thoughts and Gendry left the two sisters alone, Sansa pushed Arya off her and sneered towards her.

          “This is _your_ fault.” Sansa accused her sister. Arya regained her balance and watched as Sansa raged on, as if they were children once more.

          “None of this is my fault, you cannot blame me.” Arya shook her head and tried to make Sansa see reason.

          “You do not know what the true definition of loss is.” Sansa pointed a finger towards Arya. “Everything that should have been mine was taken by you.”

          “Sansa-”

          “It should have been me who married the prince. It should have been me who became Queen, and everyone knows it! It should be me with child right now, ready to give birth to the next heir of the throne. But instead, I was forced into a loveless marriage with a man who preferred the company of other men.”

          “You loved Renly, Sansa. And he loved you.”

          “Yes, he did. He loved me like a _sister_. Like how _Jon_ loved you.” Sansa spat towards her sister. Arya’s heart dropped when she mentioned her brother born out of wedlock, who was alone on the Wall, the lone wolf. Sansa seemed to sense the drop of Arya’s shoulders, and the storm awakening in Arya’s eyes. Sansa shook her head, and hid her rage as she was taught to so many years ago. Sansa Stark was gone, and the Lady of Winter was the one who was talking to Arya. “But it does not matter now, for he is dead. And I will be married off to some fat lord of a lesser house soon when this war is over. Now if you will excuse me, _Your Grace_.”

          When Sansa left the solar, all Arya could do was watch as her sister left her. She remembered all their fights as children, both sisters too stubborn. After Sansa’s marriage she wasn’t so naïve anymore, and saw the world as Arya saw it. They had the opportunity to become sisters once more, but now Arya felt that chance was gone. Now all Arya had was a reminder of what was stolen from Sansa.

* * *

 

          Arya was truly alone. She had not felt such sorrow since Gendry left for the Iron Rebellion. But she knew this war would cost so much more.

          Her parents spent their time with Sansa. It was as if the two sisters had their own silent war, and she felt as if they chose Sansa’s side. Of course, the better part of Arya’s mind knew that wasn’t true, and her mother and father still loved her all the same, but they had to comfort Sansa in such dire times, but that did not help heal her loneliness. Gendry seldom had any time for her, as he was always with his small council, or making plans on how to defend the city with the impending attacks. All Arya had was Nymeria, her lone direwolf. Nymeria nuzzled Arya’s womb, a silent reminder that she had her child as well, but that was no longer a comfort for her. She was not a naïve fool, and she knew the price of war. The child may never grow to know its father, and that was what brought Arya to tears the evening of their farewell, within a moon after.

          Elinor was seeing Joffrey away as well, but no tears were in his eyes. Out of her gaze she watched as Joffrey cruelly made Elinor kiss his new blade, especially forged for the battle. Even more guilt coiled inside Arya, and she forced herself to look away.

          When she saw Gendry arrive in the Throne Room with the Kingsguard behind him, her heart broke once more. He was clad in armor with a stag helmet and a warhammer in his hand. It was as if he was a ghost of the man Robert Baratheon once was during his Rebellion. She thought that must have been the reason for his flashy helmet, as it would preserve morale in his soldiers’ hearts, fighting for the Baratheon King.

          When Gendry saw Arya, he removed his helmet and handed it and his warhammer to one of his Kingsguard. She walked as fast as she could towards him, and he to her. They met in the middle of the hall, her face buried in his armor. She promised herself earlier that she would not cry in front of Gendry, and would instead wait for when she was with the ladies in Maegor’s Holdfast, but a tear slowly escaped from her, and dropped to his shiny new armor. She tried to wipe away the next tear before Gendry could notice, but when they pulled apart he already saw her damp eyes and sullen face.

          “Do not worry, I will return.” He tried to smile. It was an empty, but beautiful promise. “I will always return to my lady.”

          “Stupid,” Arya tried to laugh, but it only came out as a shaky whimper. She was stronger than this, she thought. She had to be fierce as a wolverine, brave as a direwolf, for both her child and her husband.

          He bent down and rubbed her swelled stomach. For the first time, the babe responded to Gendry, and kicked his hand. Both Arya and Gendry smiled genuinely for the first time that night.

          “If I don’t-”

          “Please, don’t.” Arya shook her head and tried to bring Gendry back to her.

          “Please, Arya. Take care of yourself and the baby. Try to flee the city before it is sacked, if I should fall.” Gendry’s blue water eyes looked up to hers and tried to make her promise to him.

          “Gendry, don’t talk like that, please.” She shook her head. Her tears were threatening to return.

          “No, Arya. I do not wish for history to repeat itself. You must protect yourself and the child. I am letting Ser Arys stay and guard you in Maegor’s Holdfast, should there be a sacking.” He paused, and waited for her to promise him. “Arya…”

          “Return to me.” Arya made Gendry swear instead. Neither man nor wife dared to speak. “Promise me Gendry. Promise me.”

          When she was escorted away by Ser Arys and Gendry was escorted to Blackwater Bay and their last kiss was exchanged, a single tear rolled down her cheek as she was ushered inside Maegor’s Holdfast. She was no longer a little girl, the girl that once roamed free in Winterfell, the girl who was proclaimed as wolf blooded, and the ghost of Lyanna. She was the woman who was fully aware of the reality that she may never see Gendry again.

* * *

 

          When Cat saw Arya enter with Ser Arys, she rushed to her youngest daughter, who she seldom saw after the announcement of Renly’s death. Ned was with the soldiers, ready to defend King’s Landing, despite his family’s requests for him to stay. He denied them, and said he was ready to fight alongside a Baratheon once more, and before Robert died he made Ned promise to watch over Gendry. Now, Ned saw through his promise upon his honor to bring Gendry back alive. But Arya made him promise to her _he’d_ return alive.

          “Do not fear, my sweet.” Cat murmured into Arya’s hair as she hugged her mother. “Your father has returned from war once before, and he will do it again. And your husband will return as well.”  

          “Thank you, mother.” Arya said as she let Cat go. Sansa was with Elinor and the rest of the ladies praying, Cersei was well in her cups already, and Ser Arys was standing uncomfortably with Lady nuzzling next to him. There was an awkward and eerie aura filling the guarded chamber, and it felt as if they were locking Arya in a cell. When some of the ladies saw Arya sit with her mother, they went to Arya, expecting the Queen to give them words of guidance. When Arya had none, Cat spoke instead, calming them like she did with Arya earlier. Even at an old age, Cat would have made a better Queen than Arya. When the ladies left and returned to Sansa to pray once more, Cat ran her hands through Arya’s hair.

          “You must not worry about your sister. She has grown and matured in Storm’s End, and after her first wave of sorrow and loss subsides, her love for you will return. Now, you must feel exhausted, my sweetling. You must sleep.” Cat coaxed sweetly. Nymeria lied alongside Arya, and set her head on Arya’s lap.

          “I cannot. Not while father and Gendry are out there.” Arya said. It was a lie. She _was_ exhausted, and the amount of tears that left her also took away her energy. Her back ached as well as her abdomen, and rest was what would have been best for her.

          “Please, Arya. You must rest. I will be here, don’t worry.” Cat said. Even though her sons were not with her, Cat made up for it by caring for her daughters with as much love as she could muster. It was more than enough encouragement, and despite herself, Arya found herself soon dozing off.

          She dreamed of winter, and she dreamed of a time of wolves. She dreamed of Winterfell. She saw the tall and ancient heart tree in the Godswood, its leaves bright as morning and the face in the trunk as menacing as she remembered. She was running wild and free, the wolf inside of her which had been caged in the South. She wore a long grey dress with furs and fringe decorating the neckline. When she got to one of the shimmering lakes by the weirwood tree, she looked at her reflection to see her own face, but her vision altered its appearance. Her Stark features were enhanced, her face longer and sharper, her winter eyes darker, and her brown hair longer. She did not look like herself anymore, she looked too pretty. _I look like Lyanna,_ she realized.

          Behind the heart tree her large direwolf with her golden eyes and grey fur raced into Arya’s outstretched arms. When her wolf reached her, she buried her face into Nymeria’s soft fur and clutched her to her chest. Nymeria was another part of her, the part of the North that stayed with her while she lived in King’s Landing. Nymeria kept her sane, and reminded her of her true home. Arya could never love her wolf enough for that.

          When Arya heard ungraceful moving, she looked to find a boy with a stag. He had ice blue eyes and a mop of dark hair, but he was not truly Gendry as much as she was not truly Arya in her dream. Nymeria slowly stood from Arya’s embrace and sauntered her way to the tall stag curiously. The stag had the right to run or step back, but it only inclined its head. The stag should have ran. They were meant to be hunted by wolves, but instead both animals stood regally by the heart tree, as Nymeria nuzzled her face affectionately to the stags. The boy looked to the girl, and they to the tree.

          Arya dreamed of the wolf and the stag, and when she never wanted to wake.

          Her eyes barely registered Maegor’s Holdfast, and her mind was still haunted by her visions. She was about to protest, but her thoughts were numbed by the sharp excruciating pains which stabbed through her. Catelyn shook her, not realizing that she was already awake. By the next wave of pain, this time, Arya did shout. Cat brought Arya’s face to hers, and Arya noticed Sansa’s hand gripping her own.

          “Arya, your child is ready.” Catelyn said to her.

        


	15. The Lone Wolf

          As Cat and Sansa rushed alongside Ser Arys, they were followed by their two direwolves and a few midwives. Arya could hear the panicked gasps and shouts of the ladies and children as they practically saw their Queen raced out of the chamber with blood on her skirts, but she could barely hear Elinor try to calm them down and sing a hymn.

          “ _Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war we pray_.” The hymn sang through Arya’s ears as they entered the birthing room and latched down the door. Rags were placed under Arya as they tried to get her as comfortable as she could be on the cold floor. There was no maester present, as the replacement was yet to arrive due to the dangers of travelling during the war. So Cat acted as such, helping Arya through the pains and relayed orders to the midwives. It was Sansa who pressed a cool cloth on Arya’s brow and held her hand. When Arya’s damp winter eyes met her sister’s, Sansa only nodded. She only acted out of rage when she lashed out at her, but now Sansa truly wanted to help her sister.

          The pain was numbing, and it took all of Arya’s strength to fight the urge to succumb to it. She was sure even Gendry could hear her screams, far away in the battlements. The thought of her husband and the harsh chance that he might never see their child made the pains even worse to bear. So early into the birth, Cat started to panic. She was a lady, having birthed five children and they and the mother remained perfectly healthy, but Arya had already lost so much blood too early into the birth. When the first urges to push washed over her, her eyes glazed and her grip on her sister’s small hand started to diminish. _How fitting,_ Arya thought, _that the men would bleed out there and I would bleed in here._

          None of the ladies in the room knew how much time passed until Ser Arys stormed into the birthing room, Lady and Nymeria behind him. When Nymeria saw Arya bloodied and feeble, the wolf practically shoved Sansa aside and nuzzled at Arya’s arm. The sight would have been amusing, Nymeria running to Arya like so many times before, but it only scared Sansa more. Her sister’s strength on her palm was weak, and she doubted the news Ser Arys was to bring would have helped. When she looked up at the Kingsguard, he shook his head and motioned for her to come to him. She would have refused to leave her sister’s side, but she instead laid Arya’s hand on the fur of Nymeria. She almost thanked the gods when Arya gripped Nymeria’s fur just as strongly. Sansa then rushed to the knight, but knew only dark words would come. After Ser Arys closed the door behind them and Lady followed, Sansa could hear another horrifying scream from Arya resonating through the halls.

          “My lady, I have retrieved word that the battle is lost. The men lost all morale when they saw the dragons fly overhead, and not even the King could return it.” Ser Arys spoke in a pained voice and closed his eyes as he relayed to her the news. She felt as if her world was falling over once more. As if the Gods haven’t cursed her enough, now they were going to take away the lives of innocents, and even more people she loved.

          “But my father? Is he alright?” Sansa’s words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them, but took a slow breath and continued, “And what of the King?”

          “I do not know, my lady.” He spoke solemnly but truthfully. A long silence passed between them. Sansa felt her heartbeat stop and her mind run blank as she thought of a world without her father, of her mother’s heartbreak, and of her brothers’ melancholy. But what scared Sansa the most was the thought of her sister’s sorrow after learning of the loss of both her father, and the death of her lover.

          “You are to return to the ladies we swore to protect, and bring my wolf with you. You must protect them with your life. Do you understand me, Ser?”

          “My lady, the King has made it clear that my duty is to Her Grace.” Ser Arys looked pained as he was forced to choose between the two choices. If he protected the ladies he broke his vow to his King, but if he stayed with the Queen, he broke his vows as a knight. “I cannot leave Queen Arya without protection. If there is to be a sacking-”

          “I am well aware of what will happen during the sacking of King’s Landing, Ser.” Sansa persisted, her voice tough as Valyrian steel. “But you know just as well as I that my sister is no longer the Queen. When the Targaryens come, _they_ will rule. The last thing you can do is protect your honor and your vows as a knight and protect the ladies. Please, Ser, if you have any love for House Baratheon or House Stark, or any love for your kingdom, you will do as I say.”

          It did not dawn on Sansa the power and finality of his promise until she returned to her sister’s birthing room, where she laid on a bed painted with her blood.

* * *

 

          The only evidence shown that her sister was still alive were her periodic screams and the grip on her direwolf. Cat was shouting at Arya to breathe and to push, and Sansa could see the tears forming in her Tully eyes. All was lost. If Arya did not survive the birth, both she and the babe would be dead. The King was presumed dead, along with their father. Sansa could faintly hear the echoes of high shrieks as doors were busted open and kicked down. Tears threatened to return to Sansa as well, but she shook her head. Her skin had turned to porcelain to ivory to steel. She was a Stark as well, and she had to show both her mother and her sister in their last moments that she could be as brave as Arya.

          “Arya, please. Just one more push.” Catelyn begged. Sansa held her sister’s other hand as her heart raced faster than she ever remembered. The ladies in waiting were loyal, and still pressed cool cloths to Arya’s forehead, although they knew their end was inevitable as well. Sansa closed her eyes when she heard the stomping and racing of armor and heavy footsteps outside the corridor. They were coming for the Queen. She held Arya’s hand tightly between both of hers. She remembered the day Arya was brought to the world. Robb and Jon had called her “Devil Child”, as she would not stop crying. Sansa swore she would protect and love her little sister, which she had failed to do after all this time.

          Prolonged deathly silence roamed throughout the birthing room as each woman listened to the quickened footsteps outside. No one dared to utter a word. It wasn’t until Sansa heard the wails of a newborn babe echo in the room that Sansa decided to open her eyes. She could not help but smile as tears of joy budded in her blue Tully eyes as she watched her mother thank the Gods, the Old and the New, as she cut the chord connecting Arya’s child to her and swaddled and cleaned the babe.

          “He is a boy.” Her mother said as she smiled at the babe in her arms. Arya’s hands were outstretched as she begged to see her child. Before Cat could hand her grandson to Arya, the door was broken down. Large and dark and armored soldiers poured through the door. The little girl Sansa once was would have thought the Dornishmen came as allies to save the Realm. But she was not a little girl.

 Before Cat could react, the babe was plucked from her arms, wailing after being taken from his grandmother. Catelyn tried to hit and attack the soldier, as did Nymeria who was ready to pounce, but he quickly held his sword to the boy’s stubby neck.

“Everyone leave, except _Her Grace_.” The soldier slurred Arya’s title as he ordered for all the ladies to leave. When no one made an effort to desert Arya, the soldier, Sansa guessed he must have been their general, continued harshly, “Leave, or I shall make you.” With that remark, his men pointed their swords towards the helpless ladies while he pressed his harder into the child’s veins. Nymeria growled fiercely and showed their fangs to the men, but Arya’s frail voice cut in the direwolf.

 “ _Please_ ,” Arya said, strained. Both Sansa and Cat looked to Arya, who barely stayed in consciousness.

“Arya-” Sansa tried to convince her sister, but as she always had, Arya managed to win her last argument.

“Please, leave.” Arya begged. Sansa had never seen her sister so driven, or more determined.

Cat tried to retaliate and argue, but Sansa weakly helped her mother out of the room. The boy’s wails tortured the soldier’s ears with the indignity of it all. She hadn’t even been able to hold him in her own arms. Before either mother or daughter could protest, the general pushed both out of the door with the rest of the midwives and slammed it shut behind them. The last thing Arya heard was her mother’s sobs and her boy’s screams before a tonic was forced through her throat.

* * *

 

Arya Stark did not dream of direwolves and stags. It was no longer a time of direwolves and stags, but instead a time for dragons.

When she awoke, she barely registered anything. Her mind was groggy, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not remember how or why she got there. She was in a small windowless room, which looked more like a cell. She slept on a stiff cot, and the area was dimly lit by a single candlelight. As she stirred awake, a stout man in leather armor smiled wickedly at her bedside. On his left hip he wore a Dothraki _arakh_ , and on his other a Myrish stiletto. At once Arya tried to scramble out of her bed, but her muscles were weak and her legs ached. When she looked down at her clothes, she wore a ripped and plain golden gown painted in dried blood.

“Ah, so you are finally awake, little wolf.” The man said before Arya could panic. The memories all flooded to her; her son, her family, Gendry…

“Where is my family?” She demanded from him.

“Your manners are making me blush. I am Daario Naharis, and you are?”

_Arya Baratheon. Arya Stark… No One._ “You know who I am.” Arya rose her head and tried to speak eyelevel to him. “Where is my family?”

“Come with me, and I shall show you, little wolf.” Daario slurred mischievously. Arya did not like him. She did not trust him, but she had no choice. Before she could even stand from her cot, two men with skin and armor not native to Westeros grabbed her two arms before she could protest. She tried to shove them off her, but their grip was as strong as steel. They forced her out and to the Throne Room. As she walked, she noticed the halls were dirtied and trashed, candelabras were knocked over, and the entire Keep smelled of dried blood and death.

When she was pushed into the throne room, she was greeted by a crowd of nobles and lords and ladies, awaiting their new titles after the war. There she saw Daenerys Targaryen sitting regally on the queen’s throne, her back straight as a spear, and her skin as fair as cream. She had a tousle of silver hair and large dangerous violet eyes, a true woman with the beauty of Ancient Valyria. On the Iron Throne sat Aegon Targaryren, a mature man grown. His beauty was as defined and haunting as Daenerys’, with eyes just as powerful filled with vengeance and glory. Side by side, it was no wonder King’s Landing fell back into the hands of the dragons.

To the front of the crowd Arya found her mother and father standing in front of Sansa and Robb. Arya almost dashed to her family, but her captors’ grip remained menacing on her arms. As they walked her closer to the throne, she realized her father was limping and standing with a cane while Cat helped him to stand herself. Her heart sank, but Sansa quickly caught her attention, minutely shaking her head, her blue eyes screaming at her a hidden message. Before Arya could react, the two soldiers restraining her stopped firmly in front of the throne.

“Address your King and Queen.” Daario whispered into her ear harshly. A chill overlapped her, with the thought of what exactly they did to her family to succeed to the throne. _Fire and blood,_ she remembered her septa telling her all those years ago.

A prolonged silence overwhelmed court, and after Aegon noticed she would not recognize the two new rulers, he spoke regally, “Lady Arya Baratheon, you _will_ recognize us as the true King and Queen of Westeros and bend the knee.”

“Where are my husband and my child?” Arya demanded, her voice just as dangerous.

“My lady…” Daenerys tried to speak softly, but Aegon continued. After hearing his aunt’s calm voice, he breathed and tried to mimic her tone.

“Lady Baratheon, we are willing to grant you Storm’s End if you bend the knee. The smallfolk loved you, and they would riot if you are granted anything less. This is a very generous offer, if you will only bend the knee.”

“Where is my family?”

“Arya…” Daenerys spoke again, but Arya realized with dread that her voice was filled with pity.

“Show me my family!”

“Your husband is dead!” Aegon sat from his throne and exclaimed. His temper had reached its peak, and the Targaryen anger shown through. “But do not worry, my lady, for he got to see your son before he died. Your husband held your child to his chest, and they died together as my mother died with my sister. My dragon burnt them to ashes.”

Arya froze in her steps, as if dragon’s fire had truly charred her heart.

She had tried so hard to be brave, to be as strong as a direwolf and fierce as a wolverine, but her father was wrong all along. Winter never came. All that was left were the burnt remains of the dragons.

Arya lost all sense. She screamed and cursed at the two dragons and was ready to lash herself at Aegon, but Daario reappeared and grabbed her shoulder firmly and pulled her away from the King and Queen. Even then, she kicked and thrashed against Daario for him to release her. Panic erupted in the throne room after seeing the Queen that once was lose all sanity before the two headed dragons. Arya could barely hear her father yelling for her as more of Daenerys’ soldiers overtook and subdued her. The last sight she saw was her sister running towards her while essence of nightshade was slipped between Arya’s lips.

* * *

 

Arya did not know how much time passed since she was told of her family’s death. She sat in the corner of her cell as she stared at her knees. Some nights she would fall asleep with tears that soaked through her cot. Arya thought it was impossible for her to produce any more tears. She was once again proved wrong the next morning. She was isolated, and everyone was forbidden from her cell, excluding her guards. Sometimes they offered her a bowl of brown, but she refused to even eat. She was no longer Arya Baratheon, the Wolf Queen, or even Arya Stark, the she-wolf of Winterfell. All that was left of her was an empty heart of stone. _Lady Stoneheart_ , she decided.

The first time she received a visitor was after she refused three consecutive bowls of brown. She heard three dainty knocks on her cell door. If they really wanted to visit her, or kill her, a wooden door was nothing to stop them. Arya did not reply. In came Daenerys Targaryen, flanked by three of her Unsullied. She stood regally and floated gracefully, with her red and black Targaryen skirts flowing behind her. She stopped in front of Arya and turned to her Unsullied, bidding for them to leave. They rightfully stood their ground willing to protest her judgment, but Daenerys then turned her gaze to Arya, who refused to acknowledge the new Queen’s presence, the presence of her husband and her son’s murderer.

“She will not harm me.” Daenerys’ eyes bore into Arya’s, as if the statement was more of a threat. The Unsullied reluctantly followed her orders and stood guard outside the cell door. As soon as they were left alone, Daenerys knelt on the ground next to Arya. “My lady, I am sorry for your loss.”

“How could you, when it was you that murdered the ones I love?” Arya spat towards her. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_.

“I too, know the definition of loss.” Daenerys straightened her back and the Queen that was inside her returned. “I once was married, and had a son as well. Until they were both taken from me.”

“As you have done to me.” Arya said, staring at the Targaryen’s purple eyes. “Would you say that we are even, _Your Grace_?”

“Aegon and I did what was necessary to reclaim the Iron Throne and take back what once was ours. Your brother belatedly called his and the Tyrell Bannermen to march to King’s Landing, but they arrived too late. We reclaimed our lands, our kingdoms, with fire and blood. The usurper killed my brother, the lions murdered Aegon’s family, and my father. I would say that we have all lost our equal share of love, my lady.”

“You did not have to do it.” Arya croaked. _I am not truly Lady Stoneheart_ , she told herself. All she was was a lone wolf.

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_. She heard her father’s voice tell her countless times. All she wanted was the man she loved, and the boy she never had the chance to love.

“I did not want the throne, I never did. I despised it. I almost refused to marry Gendry because of it. The Seven Hells knew I did not want my _son_ to grow with vipers and spies in his childhood, watching every word he said, raised to be a weapon in court. If you had only let them live, I would have never raised him as a usurper. He never would have taken your throne.”

“And Gendry? The usurper’s son?” Daenerys eyed Arya carefully.

“He wanted to be King as much as I wanted to be Queen.”

With that, Daenerys excused herself and left Arya to sob with the notion of what could have been.

* * *

 

During her confinement in the cell, no dreams came to her. She not yet knew the fate of her direwolf, nor Lady. She slept a dreamless slumber, a lifeless life. It wasn’t until one night when she heard her cell door creak open in the dead of night. No candles were lit, and no moonlight shone through her windowless chamber. She did not bother to move while she heard ungraceful steps lurk towards her bed.

_Let them kill me,_ she thought, _I have no one to live for._

Instead of steel on her neck, she felt a rough pair of lips. _Gendry_. She pulled him to her, and kissed him with all the lost and unclaimed love she never got to show him. Her lips were swollen, and they both breathed heavily. When they were both out of breath, she gently put her forehead on his, but his hands stayed from her.

“Finally, you have sympathy to visit me in my dreams.” Their silence was broken by the coo of a gurgling child. In the darkness she could see a small infant in Gendry’s arms, with a mop of black hair and striking blue eyes. She had to be dreaming. They were both dead, burnt by the dragons. “Maybe I am just dead and don’t know it yet.”

“Or maybe it _is_ a dream. Your dream, my dream… I do not know.” Gendry’s husky voice spoke as she nuzzled their boy, the boy she never got to hold. He stretched his chubby arms to his mother, who accepted and held him with all the love she never could have shown him. “All I know is that I love you, my lady… and that is all I need to know.”

She didn’t roll his eyes at his name for her, but instead rested her head on his chest once more.

“Brandon,” She whispered. He looked down at her in question, but she only repeated the name again, and raised her arms to show their son. “I would like to name him Brandon.”

“A strong name.” He agreed before he kissed her and gazed upon their son. “Brandon Baratheon, the son of the wild Arya Stark and the stupid Gendry Baratheon.”

She did not know how much time passed until she fell asleep on his chest as they once did so long ago, with Brandon in her arms.  She never wanted to wake.

* * *

 

By the time the door to her cell creaked open the last she expected was for the Targaryen King and Queen to enter. When she saw that Gendry was still next to her as well, and Brandon was still nuzzled by her chest, her mouth went dry and her eyes stared without belief.

“What dark magic is this?” She accused Daenerys and Aegon. Both kept their head high, but Daenerys’ gaze wavered while forced herself to repress a memory much like this.

“This is no magic.” Aegon swore to her. She looked at Gendry, and he looked as shocked as she.

“We had to assure the throne would not be usurped once more. When both promised a believable vow, we were allowed to reunite your family. It appears that neither of you believed it was a reality.” He then bowed his head. Arya was not sure if it was to mock her sorrow she felt not too long ago, or as a true apology. “I am sorry for the lies, lady and lord Baratheon.”

“Let us hope no more lies shall come between us.” Daenerys bowed her head as well. Arya would have been a fool not to notice the hidden language behind their tongues, but she did not want to fight back. She was done with fighting. All she wanted was to be with her family, to be happy.


	16. The Mother of Wolves

Arya never felt more at peace. Two years passed since Aegon VI's Landing. Aegon and Daenerys married, solidifying Daenerys' placement as Queen. The Targaryen Dynasty was renewed, although Daenerys was yet unable to bear him children. Word even travelled to Storm's End of the unfertile Queen, who's three pregnancies all resulted in death not long after conception. Joffrey died along with his mother, as they both refused to bend the knee and recognize their new rulers. Jaime was exiled to the Free Cities with the crime of murdering King Aerys, Daenerys' father. Elinor's betrothal to Joffrey was annulled, and as Ser Arys was removed from the Kingsguard and no longer was held to his vows, their marriage was soon approaching. Varys still served as the master of whisperers. Tyrion was appointed as the new master of coin, the Targaryens eager to have Lannister gold placed in their outstretched hands. Her father was injured from the war, and was no longer able to ride due to his weak bones. Robb ruled with Margaery as the Lord and Lady of the North, and their two children, Jessamine and baby Ned were growing strong. Arya found herself with child again, but unlike Brandon's term, Arya's second pregnancy was a much happier and easier affair. Not too long after her belly swelled noticeably, she received a raven carrying a letter with the direwolf seal. Inside was Sansa's delicate penmanship, Sansa who lived in Winterfell. Some whispered of the Widow of Winter, or the Barren Lady, but Arya shook her head at them all.

_My dearest sister, I congratulate you on your second pregnancy. I am sure you are living in peace now, and I am happy for you. Give little Brandon my love and Lord Gendry my regards. Life in Winterfell is as it has always been, but Lady is here to keep me company, despite her earlier injuries from war. War has injured us all, wouldn't you say? A letter arrived from King's Landing, with a royal invitation to the Red Keep with the seal of the three headed dragon. I do not wish to go. The city holds too many memories I wish not to revive, but mother tells me I must. Bran and Rickon promised to escort me on the Kingsroad, but I am still wary. Do you wish to meet me in King's Landing, Arya? The city must hold more memories for you than most, and although you are with child, I ask you to please consider._

Arya was amazed at how fast she returned a raven to Winterfell, with a letter of her agreement. When she told Gendry, he asked to go with her as well. He was wary of letting her return to King's Landing, and so late in her pregnancy, but she shook her head.

"A Baratheon must always be in Storm's End." She said, amused that her words echoed her mother's from so long ago. "And I will have Nymeria with me. She will always be with me."

When she was in their solar that night and with Brandon in her arms, she truly reconsidered her decision. Brandon was a rather large baby with broad shoulders and chubby cheeks, but when he held Arya's thumb, she was amazed at his strong grip. Brandon was still a young child, but he proved himself more like his father in both appearance and personality. His mop of charcoal hair on his head was still growing, but his eyes were as blue as water, almost brighter than even Gendry's. He was all Baratheon, and she had no doubt the boy would prefer his father's words,  _ours is the fury,_ to his mother's vows of honor.

A moon later, she left with some of Gendry's Bannermen and arrived at King's Landing. The city was not as she remembered; war affected this city most than others. Traders no longer flocked her and smallfolk no longer chanted for the Stark Queen or the Baratheon King. They all struggled to survive now, unsure of what to think of the new Targaryen King and Queen. They eyed Arya's caravan with caution as she passed through to the Red Keep with the bannermen. When she arrived in the courtyard, Rickon rushed out first to greet her, and encompassed her in a strong embrace, lifting her off her feet, before remembering she was with child and placed her on the ground with a string of apologies. She laughed, and ruffled her youngest brother's curled hair. He was taller than her now, and she wondered when her little brother stopped acting as the baby of Winterfell, and rather as Rickon Stark, a man grown.

Soon after, Sansa filed out with Bran behind her, both faces solemn and emotionless like stone. She frowned and realized that the war affected Sansa and Bran the most, and stole their love. Myrcella died in Dorne a year ago, after giving birth to Dastan Martell. Arya never saw Bran the same again. When they saw Arya, both her older sister and younger brother smiled a solemn smile, laced with loss and remorse.

Not long after Arya's arrival, the Starks were summoned to the throne room. When they arrived, they were greeted by King Aegon VI, who sat on the Iron Throne melted with swords. Daenerys sat beside him, and both dragons looked as regal as the Targaryens were meant to be, after returning home and claiming what was rightfully theirs. The throne room was empty, save the Kingsguard. When the Starks were addressed, the only thing she noticed was Aegon's strong gaze on Arya's sister. She doubted the cause for their summons was for news from the North.

"My ladies, my lords." Aegon bowed his head in address, and then turned to only Sansa. "Lady Stark, I hope you are finding life in Winterfell pleasant."

"All due to your kindness, Your Grace." Sansa dropped into a graceful curtsy.

"Please, do not thank me, my lady. The first I saw you, your beauty entranced me like no other. And now, so long after, with you before me, your beauty still amazes me." Aegon spoke in a dreamlike trance, and Arya was sure her brothers stared at Sansa and back to Aegon the same way Arya did now. She had no idea a wolf's beauty could attract even that of a dragon. But then, she remembered, it has happened once before. When Arya glanced at Daenerys, the wife of the man who spoke so highly of another woman right in front of her, Daenerys' face was of stone.

"Pardon, Your Grace, but you have only seen me once before, a glance at most two years ago when you arrived in King's Landing." Sansa's tone was kept sweet while she addressed the war Aegon brought. Even Arya was left to wonder if bitterness was what Sansa truly felt towards the King she spoke to now.

"No, my lady, but you are wrong. We have met before, do you not remember? I crowned you as my queen once, my Queen of Love and Beauty."

Sansa arose from her deep curtsy, her beautiful face frozen with shock and disbelief. "I beg pardon, Your Grace?"

"I was sent on a ship before Daenerys. I was to scout the kingdoms but lie low. I disobeyed the orders when I heard of Lord Gendry's nameday tourney." Aegon said. Arya did not fail to notice Aegon's refusal to address Gendry with his past title. "My hair was dyed blue with the disguise, and I donned the armor sent with me, against everyone else's will. When I knocked Lord Baratheon to the ground, I placed the wreath of blue winter roses on the lap of your golden gown, my Lady Sansa. Let me crown you once more, with a crown of gold. Let me marry and have you as I have wished so dearly, if you will allow me?"

* * *

The royal wedding was set moons later with no time to waste. Arya was amazed at how fast a betrothal of an  _already married_  king was bartered, but again she remembered her mother's words,  _no one can refuse the King_. Arya shared a bed with Sansa each night before the wedding, but sometimes she would hear her sister's soft whimpers as she cried herself to sleep. Her marriage to Renly ended by Aegon's own blade, and it was no secret the King required heirs, which Daenerys failed to give. If Sansa truly was barren, she would have failed once more in her duties. And Sansa was sure Daenerys would not take kindly to having to share her title with another woman. Arya told her it was nonsense, and Sansa dreamed and was raised to rule, but Sansa was no longer the little girl who sang songs of knights and their fraught loves.

The day for Sansa's wedding came as soon as each invited guest arrived. There were lords from Dorne, the Vale, the Neck, the Reach, the Eryie, and any other place in Westeros with fat and wealthy lords. When Sansa met Aegon at the foot of the Sept, he greeted her with a smile sweet like a peach. They both truly did look enchanting; Sansa with her hair kissed by fire, and Aegon with his regal silver Targaryen locks. Arya was sure songs would be written of their beauty, songs of ice and fire.

As the Septon called for Aegon to cloak his bride, Arya felt Gendry's hand on her hip holding her closer to him. She did not doubt he was remembering the very day they said their vows in this Sept. But that felt too long ago, in another life. And after their hands were bound together and a kiss was exchanged, it was done. Sansa Stark, once Baratheon, was Sansa Targaryen, a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Applause echoed throughout the Great Sept, but Arya's eyes were on Daenerys, trying to calculate if her sister was truly at danger from Aegon's first wife. All Arya saw was a wall of emotionless chaste, only disrupted by her deep violet eyes. Daenerys must have learned from practice, living in King's Landing for two years so far. She started to wonder if Daenerys was starting to regret fighting for such a burden.

The feast was lively and grand, as any royal wedding was expected to be. Arya sat with her family who arrived from the North only days before the wedding. Margaery watched Aegon at the royal table with Sansa and Daenerys at his side with an expression that Arya did not know. In her arms she held baby Ned, born mere months before Brandon. Robb hadn't changed since she saw him after the war, or not much. Her father was the one that scared her, who was barely able to walk without the help of Cat due to his injured leg from the Battle of Blackwater Bay. It almost brought tears to Arya's eyes, seeing her once brave and strong father weak and feeble.

"Where is Bran?" Arya asked loudly over the lute players' music. She had not seen him since the ceremony, and even then his expression was dark.

"I have not seen him." Robb shrugged and carefully took Ned from Margaery's arms.

It did not take Arya long before she realized why her brother had disappeared. To the left of their seating sat Prince Trystane Martell with his deep olive skin and straight black hair. Arya let Gendry take Brandon from her arms as she stood from the table to find Bran. When she finally found him far away from the feast seated on a large rock sharpening his sword, Arya sat beside him.

"You are missing our sister's wedding feast." Arya mused as she tried to act as the older sister she never could sound like.

"So are you." Bran said.

"Bran, please…" Arya turned to her little brother, who was a man grown by then with long unkempt Stark hair and grey eyes. "please, talk to me."

"I plan to join the Night's Watch. I'll be with our cousin." Bran said, not looking up at Arya. Arya's grey eyes dropped as she remembered Jon Snow. Not long after the Targaryen Dynasty was renewed, Daenerys and Aegon legitimized Jon as the son of Lyanna and Rhaegar. Ned's promise to Lyanna never was broken.

"Bran, you don't have to join the Night's Watch."

"Prince Dastan… he is the trueborn son of Prince Trystane and the late Myrcella Martell." He spoke slowly, and there was a long silence between them as his words formed in her head. Both Princess Aryanne and Prince Dastan were deemed far too young to handle the trek from Dorne for the royal wedding, and so they were both left in Dorne. "She… after the war, Myrcella wanted to be honorable, like her brothers. She tortured herself trying to love her husband, and her attempts resulted in her death. I had to leave. I cannot look into the boy's eyes without seeing my failure to keep her alive. I abandoned my role as a squire and left for the North without a second thought." He paused then, his once stony and strong voice faltering. "I lie awake all night thinking of how I abandoned her."

Arya was not sure if he meant Myrcella, or perhaps Aryanne, or mayhaps both. Bran hadn't seen Aryanne, his only daughter and child with Myrcella, since Myrcella's death. He was no longer welcome in Dorne, and it was unlikely for him to ever see his daughter again. When she realized Bran had tears in his eyes, her heart broke once again since being reunited with her family.

"Bran," Arya said his name affectionately as she tried to comfort him. She put her arms around her little brother and hugged him as such. "We are Starks of Winterfell, but children of the long summer, that's all we've ever known. But winter is truly coming. And when it does,  _that_  is the time of direwolves and our time will come. I swear it."

* * *

The morning before Arya meant to leave King's Landing with Gendry and Brandon, Arya awoke to the discomfort of her child twisting inside her. When she leaned against the bedpost, she felt a damp feeling between her legs to discover that her child was ready to be born.  _But it is too soon,_  Arya panicked. She instantly awoke Gendry, who was fast as thunder calling for the maesters to help move her to the birthing room. Sansa arrived as well with Cat and Margaery, who tended to her while Sansa stayed by her sister's side. It all seemed too familiar, too much alike Brandon's birth.

"I am not leaving you." Gendry vowed as he sat beside Arya, holding her hand.

"Forgive me, but you must go, my lord." Maester Gormon said as he attempted to make Gendry leave. Births were meant for only women and maesters, not the lady's husband.

"No. I was not here for her when she birthed our first child. I refuse to leave her again." Gendry said, holding her hand tighter.

"My lord-"

"And how do  _you_  propose to keep me out?" Gendry snarled, letting his temper getting the best of him. Arya would have laughed, but it was hardly the time.

"Brandon? Where is he?" She panted as the pains only grew worse.

"He is with Bran and Robb and Ned waiting outside." Sansa answered.

Her second time giving birth was much easier than when she birthed Brandon. Mayhaps it was the maester who helped, or mayhaps it was even Gendry's presence. When the pain seemed too much, Gendry told her to think of when they used to ride to Blackwater Bay together, so foolish and so young. Sansa told her to think of Winterfell, of the Godswood, of their family. She did not know how much time passed before the child finally withdrew and its shrieks filled the room. Before Arya could rejoice, Maester Gormon's eyes widened.

"There is another child, my lady." He said. Everyone in the room looked at Arya, as if checking she could handle birthing another. Arya nodded, and Margaery cleaned and swaddled the first child as the second was being birthed. The second was far easier and smoother, and when another pair of cries joined in the room and Cat swaddled the second, Gendry still stood by her, refusing to let her go.

"They are both healthy girls." Cat said. After the first child was cleaned and the second was properly birthed, Sansa took her from Margaery and placed her in Arya's arms. Cat did as well, and placed the second in Gendry's. The maester called in the rest of the Stark family, gazing upon the newborn additions. Robb looked as if he was ready to reminisce of the days in Winterfell when he would find her with mud on her trousers after a day of riding. Bran took a stoic look, and Arya realized he looked much like father did when he was younger. Meanwhile, Rickon held little Brandon in his arms and showed him his siblings.

The firstborn had Stark brown hair and stared back at Arya with the same stormy grey eyes. The second born had Gendry's hair and eyes, like Brandon.

"What shall we call them?" Arya asked, her voice painted with exhaustion and a mother's will.

"She looks like you." Sansa said, smiling from the firstborn to Arya. Rickon nodded as well.

Eddard stepped in, with the help of Cat, and corrected with his frail and stoic voice, "She looks like Lyanna."

When Arya looked at her father, she realized tears were welling in his eyes.

"Then it shall be. The firstborn will be called Lyanna." Arya said. She never saw Ned happier. She could imagine Robert rejoicing in his grave, happy for a Lyanna finally to have a Baratheon name. Arya then looked to their second born daughter. "And this one shall have a Baratheon name."

"Cassana," Gendry decided, naming her after his grandmother who died long before he was born. Although she neglected her studies of the other houses Septa Mordane tried so hard to teach her, everyone knew of the Tragedy of Shipbreaker Bay. And the name fit. The daughter looked as much Baratheon as Brandon already.

"The wolf and the stag," Sansa mused as she looked upon Lyanna and Cassana.

* * *

It took twelve years after the birth of Lyanna and Cassana before Arya saw Winterfell again. They were in Storm's End, leading a life as peaceful as any life in Westeros could be. Against all odds, Arya birthed two more children after the twins, the boy, Audric, was five years younger than the twins, and the baby girl, Cella, only had one nameday so far. Brandon grew as large as Arya expected, with the same build as his father. Yet no matter how tall he grew already, the maesters told her he was still expected to grow more. The chubby cheeks he had as a child disappeared, along with the rolls of fat along the years. Lyanna, although only ten and two years of age, was already a comely girl with long Stark brown hair, which was always simply braided and left on her right shoulder. She was already on par to Brandon when it came to archery, and she could outride any man in Storm's End. Cassana, although young, would prove to be the more beautiful twin, everyone knew. Her piercing blue eyes contrasted beautifully with her long black hair, which she always kept in an intricate braid every day. She sparred with Brandon, and often went racing with Lya. However, their youngest son, Audric, preferred books over weapons. When Brandon once asked, Audric simply replied that wisdom is a better weapon than a sword. Like Brandon and Cassana, Audric seemed to have inherited the Baratheon appearance from Gendry. Unlike baby Cella, who inherited her late grandmother's fair hair but her father's blue eyes.

No one ever thought Arya Stark would ever grow to birth five children, as her mother had, and she surprised the entire Realm. She thought they ought to be used to it by then.

That day, Arya was in her and Gendry's shared solar, tickling baby Cella whilst changing her. Brandon had just finished sparring with his swordsmaster, and it was time for Cassana's lesson. Brandon would not have minded taking his swords lessons with the twins, but the hired Braavosi swordsmaster insisted it was best if taught separately. Cassana was making her way to the practice yard rather early, and she heard the sound of practice swords clashing and grunts. She assumed Brandon's lessons were prolonged, but the yelps were particularly feminine. When she got closer, she saw her sister sparring with one of the servants.  _The kitchen boy_ , she realized.  _The bastard._  When Lyanna failed to block one of the kitchen boy's blows, the wooden sword struck her on the shoulder. She yelped again, and rubbed where she was hit. Without conscious thought, Cass ran to their mother.

When Arya heard the ungraceful knocks on the door of the solar, she knew it must be someone from the family. She bid it to be opened, and in entered Cassana with her usually perfect hair flying from running, and a panicked look on her face.

"What's wrong?" Arya asked with a concerned tone while her brows furrowed. She never saw Cass in such a fright. Lya maybe, but never Cass.

"Mother, it was my sister… she…" Cass was still panting from her sprints, and Arya told her to take a deep breath. Cass looked up from her feet, her blue eyes filled with utter worry and concern. "Lya was sparring with the kitchen boy, the bastard. He  _hit_  her, mother!"

Arya's face calmed, but a sad frown remained on her lips. Her shoulders lowered and she released a breath she did not know she was holding. "Come here, my sweetling."

After Arya placed Cella back in her crib, Cass sat next to her mother.

"You haven't met your uncle, have you? Your uncle Jon?" Arya asked. Although Jon was now known as the cousin of the Starks, she still referred to him as her children's' uncle.

"No, but I remember your stories of him." Cass answered. Indeed, she remembered when her and Lya were but tiny children, they would always ask for their mother to tell them stories of their brave uncle, the watcher on the wall.

"He is the bravest and most honorable man I know, aside from your grandfather." Arya said as she placed her arm around Cass, reminding Cass that she still had years to go before she was a woman grown. "He thought he was a bastard his entire life, and he was one of the greatest the greatest men I know."

"But- but he hit her. He hit my sister. Bastards aren't supposed to hit princesses. That's not what our Septa taught us."

Arya dropped her hand from Cassana's shoulder, and her eyes with shock. Her daughter had just called Lyanna and herself a princess. She tried to recover, unsure if Cass noticed. "I do not know about princesses, but a  _lady_  can do as she likes. I did, and look at me now, with three beautiful daughters and two honorable sons and a stupid oaf of a husband."

Cassana's expression softened, and despite herself, giggled. She always was amused whenever her parents threw empty quips and japes at each other, when she was sure no other person has loved a wolf or a stag as much as her parents loved each other.

* * *

The next evening a raven arrived at Storm's End with a letter sealed with the howling direwolf. Arya tore the letter open with haste to find her mother's neat handwriting rushed and sprawled with too much ink. Worried, she read the parchment closely. When she was done, Gendry found her that night in their featherbed, tears soaking her pillow.

"Arya?" He sat next to her. When she ran out of tears she forgot she had, she spoke with a hushed tone, as if she refused to believe it.

"My father… he is very sick, and mother says I need to visit. She must have sent a letter to Sansa as well." She then looked from her hands to Gendry with a watery gaze. "Gendry… my father is dying."

They arrived at Winterfell a moon later, Arya with Nymeria and Brandon and the twins and Audric. Gendry stayed, as he could not leave, and Cella was far too young to survive the travel from the South to the North. It did not dawn on Arya that this was the first time her children saw Winterfell, her home. As soon as they were allowed in the east gate, she was almost knocked over by Rickon's hug as strong as a bear. Her Queen sister arrived soon after, with children of her own in tow. Already tall Aerion, a year younger than the twins, and Daena, only a year younger than Aerion ran out of the castle, eager to meet their cousins. Behind her mother's skirts hid shy little Elaena. What made Arya's mouth run dry and tears return to her eyes was when she saw Jon.

_Her_  Jon, her half-brother now cousin, the boy she was always closest to when growing up. They always got into trouble together, and it was he that gifted her her first sword. He still had unruly and unkempt dark brown curls and his grey eyes that matched hers. He was dressed in all black, as he had promised the last time they saw each other. She was a child again when she ran into his arms, fresh tears budding in her eyes.

"I have missed you, little wolf." Jon said after he placed her back on the ground and ruffled her hair, forgetting she was a woman grown with five children.

"You stupid crow." Arya laughed, wiping the tears from her eyes.

* * *

The day her father died, she ran to the Godswood. She sat before the tall Heart Tree she had only seen in her dreams for so long, and let her tears fall onto the snow. When she returned that evening, when the sky was too dark to see in front of her, she saw her family huddled together in her mother's chambers. It was Robb, Jon, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon. Her family she had missed far too much, the family she had to be with. She was quick to join.

"The direwolves," Rickon croaked, "They are gone."

Arya rose her hear from Sansa's shoulders in disbelief. "That is impossible."

"They left as soon as father… no one has seen sight of them since." Robb said.

Arya went to sleep that night more heartbroken than she expected. When she dreamed, she dreamed she was running wildly, as a wolf. There was snow under her paws, and she was chasing a pack. She did not know where they were to go, and before she could discover, she awoke. Every night after that was the same dream, her as her lost wolf. A moon after the pack's disappearance Bran and Jon accompanied her and Lya and Audric to the Godswood. In front of the Heart Tree laid a dead direwolf, painting the snow with blood. Arya screamed and jumped off her horse, rushing to the wolf.

"Nymeria," She whimpered, putting the dead wolf's head on her lap. She did not know she was able to cry so often within a moon. Lya and Audric trailed behind her while Jon and Bran rushed to her side.

"Arya," Jon said as he examined her dead wolf, her dead companion. In his arms he held two balls of fur, and she realized he held her wolf's pups. "She must have not survived the birth, not in the winter."

He handed the pups to Bran while he picked up two more. Arya was too busy mourning for her dead wolf and her dead father to realize Nymeria's pups. Lya and Audric hugged their mother, unsure of how to comfort her. From behind the heart tree came the rest of the pack, sniffing Nymeria. She realized it was Summer who started to first howl for Nymeria. Then joined the rest of the wolves in a chorus, joining Arya in her mourning.

"That's impossible." Bran whispered.

"What?" Arya asked through tears.

"There are five pups, like us. Five for each of your children respectfully."

She stroked her wolf's fur, not willing to leave. They were both mothers of wolves, she knew. And the winter her father always spoke of was truly coming. The hard winters that the Starks have always endured, when the wolves would rise again. When the snow falls and the winter winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.


	17. Tourney at Storm's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, everyone! It's been so long already and we're so far, I'm proud to announce that (if everything goes as planned) there is only one chapter left after this. I'd like to say thank you to everyone who stuck with this so far!
> 
> This chapter was the hardest of any chapter in this entire fic to write. Not only did I try to jampack this chapter with parallels, make use of foreshadowing, and all that jazz -let's see if you can catch them all ;) , but the revolving point of views were new to me, and it's odd to think of each new characters in such an environment. So I apologize to anyone who finds the new concept a bit awkward...
> 
> Also I'd like to mention that since the plotline of this fic changes throughout every five or so chapters, I want to exclusively point out that this fic was planned with three full arcs: Arya and Gendry falling in love, King Gendry and Queen Arya, and the aftermath (particularly their children).
> 
> With that, (thanks to everyone who bothered to read this author's note by the ways), I want to say a final thank you and enjoy the second to last chapter :)

 

It had been two years since Arya's return from Winterfell. Storm's End was as lively as ever filled with the five little stags and their wolves. The servants which worked in the castle and served the Baratheons barely had a chance to take a breath between caring for the five children, hiding from the direwolves, attending to their lord and lady, and keeping the castle clean. The castle was even more animated with Brandon's sixth and tenth nameday arriving within a fortnight. He was to have a tourney, and even Arya's head ached with all the preparations that were still to be made. Cassana and Shadow, a fitting name for her direwolf as black as the crows on the Night's Watch, often sat next to Arya while together they would sort out the letters of promised attendance and preparing the list for the tourney. Lyanna did her best to hide from everyone, else she would be caught in the chaos of it all. Brandon was in the practice yard, Audric was in the castle's library, and little Cella was with Cass and Arya. With her wolf, she sneaked away to the kitchens to hide.

Her already frighteningly large direwolf had eyes blue enough to match the sky, and fur golden enough to match the sands of Dorne. Lya found herself fascinated of the tales of Aegon Targaryen and his two sister wives, riding on their dragons and fiercely overtaking the Kingdoms. She admired the two Targaryen women, fighting alongside their brother, although if you asked anyone they would give the credit to Aegon. Fittingly, she named her Northern wolf Visenya, after the elder Targaryen Queen.

Lya followed her wolf to the countertop and sat atop it comfortably whist nibbling at a shiny red apple. The cooks were surely meeting with her parents, deciding on the menu for the feast following her brother's tourney. She was disappointed when she discovered Brandon was not to compete in his own nameday tourney, but he simply replied that he did not want the other competitors to go easy on him because it was his nameday. When she told Cass the other day, she laughed and called Brandon a coward. That night ended with an awfully brutal sparring match, which Brandon eventually won.

The soft creaking of a door took Lya from her thoughts. She almost dropped the apple from her hands, her eyes widening at the very person who dared to visit her. He supposed she did look lovely then, with her Stark hair long flowing freely to her waist. She sat without posture, one hand leaned back on the counter and one leg over the other under her simply grey dress. Her beautiful grey eyes which he often lost himself in widened scandalously.

"I told you not to visit me." She murmured at a small attempt to shoo him away. He annoyed her, obviously, the stupid kitchen boy. That was surely the reason she reacted as such.

"And since when did you start listening to what your sister told you to do?" He asked defiantly. Oh, he was so stubborn, and she believed she hated him for it. He crossed his large arms over his chest and jutted his chin to the air. It would have been rather amusing, if she was not so annoyed.

"I don't listen to Cass, I listen to myself." Lya rolled her eyes and dropped from the counter, tossing the apple between her hands playfully. A fortnight ago Cass stumbled upon them, and she told Lya to stay away from the " _bastard"_ as she said it. Her sister was awfully overdramatic. "Why did you come here anyways?"

"Lord Audric has asked for me to bring his meal to the library tonight." He said nonchalantly. He almost dared her to argue back with his stupid water blue eyes. Oh how she would love to smother her hand in his black hair and… pull it out.

"Yes, I am sure he has." Lya sent him the worst glare she could manage. "So go on and leave me be."

"As m'lady commands," He quickly bowed and grabbed a tray of food off the counter and exited, barely missing the half eaten apple she attempted to lob at him.

"Stupid," She sighed. Visenya seemed to agree.

* * *

Time passed too quickly, and already Brandon's nameday fell upon them. When the sun was high above the tents and the knights were just starting to don their armor, Cass and Lya ran into their cousin's tent and Cass did not mind her courtesies for the crowned prince but instead leaped freely into his arms. Aerion was by far her favorite cousin, and he caught her easily, his long silver blonde hair flowing behind him. When they were younger in Winterfell, Cass remembered Daena boasting of how her father tells that Aegon was born on a stormy day in King's Landing with the salty bays of Blackwater crashing against the shore, and the smoke from the fire mingling with the prince's first breath. Daena said Aerion was the prince that was promised. Cass thought the idea of it all was terribly silly.

"It is good to see you as well, dear cousin." Aerion ruffled Cass' intricate braid that she put too much time in, and she swatted his hands away in mock hatred. When Aerion noticed Lya was in his tent as well, he turned from Cass and he almost gasped, taking in her very appearance. It was well agreed by whoever met the twins that Cass was the more beautiful one, and would grow into her beauty as more years would pass, yet Aerion always treated Lyanna as if she was the most beautiful woman he laid eyes on. "By the Gods, Lya, it has been so long."

Lya smiled and walked into Aerion's embrace. "It has only been two years."

"And two years passed too slowly." He smiled enchantingly as he let her go. Aerion was the most polite and chivalrous man the girls knew, and he ought to be a knight rather than the crowned prince. His squire, Mace, the third born of Elinor Tyrell and Arys Oakheart, the former knight of Gendry's Kingsguard, entered the tent as well with Aerion's armor in his arms. When Mace saw Lya and Cass with Aerion, he clumsily lowered himself into a curt bow.

"My ladies," He greeted them, and then took care to place the freshly cleaned armor onto the nearby table.

"You two should go sit with your family," Aerion said, trying to dismiss his cousins. He then flashed them a grin that could make the entire Seven Kingdoms bend the knee again right then and there. "Be sure to get a good view when I win."

"Pah, you wish." Lya laughed loudly as she and Cass gave him a final hug before exiting the tent.

* * *

Gendry squirmed in his seat as his two eldest daughters took their place next to Audric and Brandon. He was not used to sitting at a tourney rather than competing, and Arya almost swatted his arm to keep him still as if he were as young as little Cella, who was now on the lap of Cass.

"Can you not sit still for at least a moment?" Arya growled towards him. Her temper was quickly rising, as the box was already filled with all the children  _and_  their wolves. Valor, Brandon's wolf and the largest of the pack and had fur matching Shadow's. Audric named his wolf Winter, and whenever Arya saw Winter roaming around the courtyard, she thought she was seeing Ghost. Cella was so young and did not know what to call her wolf, so under Cassana's suggestion, named her small grey wolf Princess. However, the wolves were taking rather too much room, and Arya did not enjoy being squished between her son, her husband, and Valor.

Before Arya could fume and order for the wolves to be taken out of the box, Gendry laughed at her very expression as if she swallowed a lemon. "Would you look at that? You're getting angry within record time. Are you sure you are not with child again, dear wife?"

She scowled. "After the twins, I thought that was enough. But then I was pregnant once more, and then three children became four. I thought that was far more than enough, but then I fell with child once more, and I found myself with five children. I doubt you want to see what  _six_  children will be like, with five direwolves roaming about as well."

He smirked and raised his eyebrows suggestively. "Would you like to find out, dear wife?"

"Stupid," Arya hit him in the arm and looked towards the first tilt that was to begin. The competitors were two barely knighted boys, one from the Reach and the other from the Riverlands. She sighed watching as they charged towards each other, their lances pointed forward. She longed for the days back when she was free to practice her water dancing whenever she wished, and when she would race her brothers in Winterfell, and even for the days when she and Gendry would ride to Blackwater Bay together. It all seemed too long ago in another life.

"Do you remember when I crowned you as my Queen of Love and beauty?" Gendry asked as if he could read her mind.

"Yes I remember the day you crowned me as a jape." Arya said, remembering the deal they made to each other, and when he made his way towards where she sat with the wreath in his hands.

"Oh please, even now with five children, you still believe it was a jape?" Gendry huffed and leaned closer to Arya, his beautiful Northern wife who was just as wild and willful as the day they married in the Sept.

"It was a mean for you to win the deal, yes." Arya said. Gendry scowled and chucked her under the chin, making her grey eyes meet his.

"I remember when I asked the florists to make the crown with blue winter roses, just so I could place it on your head. I remember how the petals looked beautifully on your hair, and how your grey eyes looked at me with such annoyance you were ready to fling the wreath at my face in front of the entire crowd." He smiled, and his unshaven chin scratched hers when he pulled her in to kiss, the memories from so long ago fresh in his mind as if he was reliving the very days of his youth.

"You're stupid when you try to be romantic." She laughed when he pulled away, only for little Cella to run to him begging to sit on his lap.

No, he was right all along. When she was his Queen, and now as Lady Baratheon ruling Storm's End with him, nothing changed within her. He was still the foolish boy who truthfully did not fight his father to the fullest on the idea of the quick betrothal to Arya Stark, the wild she-wolf of the North. She was still the girl who instantly ran to the dungeons to look upon the Targaryen dragon skulls as soon as she arrived at the Red Keep. Long after they were gone from this world, he knew there would be songs written of direwolves and stags, of the stupid prince and his Northern lady.

* * *

They were well through the first round of tilts when the kitchen boy visited their box to bring condiments. Neither of Cassana's parents paid him or the food much mind; they were too busy poking fun at each other's age. Little Cella migrated from her father's lap and back to Cassana's, and was too occupied tugging on her already ruined braid, thanks to Aerion. Brandon was too focused on the tilt, and Audric was making conversation with Lya. But when she realized his presence Cass pretended not to notice how her sister's eyes glanced to his, and then back to the tilt ashamed. Cassana recognized the boy instantly. He was always close to her sister, ever since they were young. He was the boy she found practicing with Lya that day when she told their mother. Cassana felt a pang of anger as he offered food to Lya, and she hated herself for it. She decided to look back to the tilt as well.

Lya's surprised gasp resonated through the box as the cold purple wine the boy offered her spilled over her dress, dripping from her chest and down her skirts.

"Pardon m'lady," He murmured a string of apologies, desperately attempting to mend the rift he assumed he created in front of the Lord and Lady of Storm's End.

"Do not worry yourself too much." Arya assured him, waving a hand dismissively. "The dress was awful anyways."

Cassana raised an eyebrow, surprised at her mother's nonchalance. The boy spilled his wine on his lady, he ought to be reprimanded. No one should disrespect the Baratheons so lowly and be praised for it.

"Go on then," Gendry huffed, also not too worried over the accident, "take Lya and see if you can't get those stains out."

The boy nodded and took Lya's hand as if she needed help rising from her seat. Brandon shot the boy an accusing glance, but neither seemed to notice as they hurried out of the box. As soon as they were out of the tourney's crowd and in the castle, both burst into laughter.

"You're so stupid," she almost could not breathe, remembering the look on her family's faces, and his strings of apologies.

"I would think I was rather smart, m'lady." He smiled as they walked down the halls towards her chambers to find a new outfit fit for the tourney and the feast afterwards.

"Don't call me m'lady, stupid." She scowled. She turned her back to him to open her chamber doors, but when she turned he would not move. He was always stubborn from the first day she almost forced him to practice sparring with her. Brandon was far too scared to hurt his little sister, and Cass was always with Brandon or Cella. When she brought the idea to him, he refused. It took a moon until she finally convinced him to pick up a wooden practice sword against her, and even then all he did was defend himself. He's lived in Storm's End as the kitchen boy for as long as she could remember. When she returned from Winterfell after her last moments with her grandfather, her favorite family member that didn't live in Storm's End, he was the one who held her close. But now they were grown. And things were different. She wished things could stay the same.

He was close. He was closer than should have been, closer than what usually was. She could have stopped him when he pressed his lips onto hers, unsure and careful. She could have pushed him away, or kicked him herself. She had all the power; she only lacked the self control. People often always compared Lya to her mother, as they both carried the spirit of the North, but Lya doubted her mother could ever fall in love with a servant, a bastard boy.

"Regis," She whispered. She intended it to sound like a warning, but it only came as an invitation.

"Lady Lyanna, what a fine day it is, cousin." A sharp voice called from the corridor. The interruption was like a bucket of ice water, and Lya all but leaped away from Regis. When she looked, she saw her cousin, the second born of Queen Sansa and King Aegon, the eldest Targaryen Princess. Lyanna never did care for her cousin Daena, and Daena did not care for Lyanna or Cassana on that matter. She was far too dangerous, although her cousin. Three years younger than Lya, the court of King's Landing sharpened Daena into a weapon.  _A dragon,_  Lya reminded herself. She looked nothing like her aunt Sansa, Daena's haunting beauty of Old Valyria too prominent. Her deep violet eyes bore into Lyanna's, silently telling that she saw the deed. "I saw that you left the tourney, and I only followed to see if there was a matter."

"Your grace," Regis dropped into a clumsy bow. Daena nodded for him to rise.

"You  _are_  quite handsome," she marveled, studying him closely as if he was an object. "Black hair… deep blue eyes… what is your name?"

"I am Regis, your grace." He murmured in reply.

"Who are your parents, Regis?"

"My father was a bastard; he died in the battle of Storm's End. My mother was a servant, but died soon after… your grace."

"A bastard of a bastard," Daena scrutinized him, her enchanting lilac eyes as dangerous as her father's dragon. Regis did not reply. After a few tense moments, she took Lya's arm in hers and waved her other dismissively. "Well, the seed is strong, as I've heard said. Come, dear Lya, I shall help you change quickly. I brought a gown with me from the South; it will look quite lovely on you. We must return to the tourney, I am sure my brother is going on his final round soon."

* * *

By the time Lya returned to her family's box on the highest stand, Aerion was already on his final tilt. He was against some Dornish knight, his muscle evident through his armor. Arya bit her lip worrying of how bad her nephew's fall from his horse would be. She heard the tale of how Willas lost the strength of his leg due to his fall during his match against Oberyn Martell. She leaned towards Gendry, who was also watching the preparation for the final match with uneasiness.

"You must take Aerion out of the match." Arya whispered to him, making sure not to let her children hear. "The Dornish knight knocked each of his competitors to the ground, all unconscious after. Aerion is too small, too willowy. He is going to die."

"Aerion fights well; you underestimate him." Gendry rasped, but he too was reluctant to watch the boy go against such a seasoned knight.

"Aerion is my  _nephew_. He is Sansa's first son; surely we must annul this tourney." Arya disagreed stubbornly. She was ready to bolt out of her seat to demand for the fight to be stopped at once, but Gendry held her arm down.

"You cannot take the prince from the fight, Arya. Look at the King and Queen." He nodded towards Sansa and Aegon who watched from the highest box on the other side of the stands. Aegon had a smile on his face, excited and proud to see his son in the final rounds, but even from her seat Arya could sense the determination set in Sansa's jaw, but the worry so evident in her Tully eyes. She could not refuse the King.

She huffed and settled back in her seat with defeat. As the horses charged at each other, she felt Gendry's arm link through hers again. The sunlight glinted against Aerion's armor, making him seem like Azhor Ahai reborn. Their lances jutted at each other with a synchronized step and they raced with an entrancing speed. When the two lances hit shields, neither was unseated. A second round was called, and the two horses pounded against the dirt, eager to be set off. When they struck each other once again, it was the Dornish knight who fell off his horse.

Cheers erupted through the stands instantaneously with shouts of the prince's strength and bravery. Songs would be written of him, she knew. He was the son Sansa always dreamed when she was a girl in Winterfell. He gallantly dismounted his horse and helped the knight from the dirt with an extended hand. The cheers only increased then, threatening to create Arya deaf. His squire ran out to Aerion, handing him the wreath of roses he was to place on his Queen of Love and Beauty. Arya glanced at Aryanne Martell, the natural born daughter of her brother and Myrcella. She looked enough of a Martell to pass off as a trueborn daughter, and as far as Arya knew, no one suspected a thing. It was not a secret Aegon wished to create an alliance between the Targaryens and Martells once again, as he was originally supposed to marry Arianne, but he instead chose Sansa. As expected, Aryanne fixed her dark hair to lie on her shoulder perfectly, her now green Lannister eyes glinting in the sunlight with the anticipation. Rumors of an awaited betrothal between the Prince and the Princess of Dorne floated to even Arya's ears, much to her disgust. She would have to convince Sansa, who was oblivious of Aryanne's true birth, not to, unless they wished for a marriage between kin.

When Aerion walked up the stands and passed Aryanne's seat, her smile died. Who the Prince intended to crown, Arya did not know. Whispers hissed throughout the attendance, and each eligible lady within age fixed their skirts and their hair, unknown as to who he was to crown as his Queen of Love and Beauty. When he neared the seat of Elyse, the third born child of Elinor Tyrell and Arys Oakheart, her smile grew wider and ever more welcoming and seductive on her Tyrell face. He however passed her as well, only to enter the box which Arya's family sat in. All faces were frozen with shock, horror in Arya's eyes. It wasn't until Aerion placed the crown on Lyanna's head that Arya noticed the roses were the colors of fire and blood.

* * *

The feast was a sour attempt at a lively affair. The first hours were spent in bitter awe. Gendry almost tossed the crown off Lyanna's head and threw it at his good-nephew. He found it far too inappropriate, and his daughter was still so young… it took convincing from both Cass and Arya to convince him it was a rather stupid idea to throw the crown of flowers at the crowned prince. After Gendry's initial shock faded, Brandon's seemed to kick in. When Aerion was long gone from the box, he sprung from his seat, ready to talk some sense into his cousin, the inappropriateness of it all. This time it was Arya and Gendry who had to wheel him away. Lyanna was silent during the ordeal of it all, her face disturbingly placid. During the feast, innocent little Cella skipped to Lyanna's chair. Lyanna hoisted her youngest sister into her lap, and smoothed the little girl's hair down.

"I like your flowers." Cella said, fascinated by the blood red petals.

"They  _are_  quite beautiful." Lyanna agreed.

"Can I wear it?" Cella asked, earnest to try the crown of flowers and thorns. Princess Aryanne, who chose to sat next to Lya during the feast (Lya never had anything against her aunt's daughter, this was after all, the first day she met her, but she found her presence terribly unsettling), turned in her seat and smiled at Cella. The Dornish Princess was Brandon's age. She had a long face and dark hair, but she had the green eyes of her mother.

"Prince Aerion gifted those flowers to Lady Lyanna, sweetling." Aryanne chucked Cella under the chin. "He made your sister the Queen of Love and Beauty."

"Can  _I_  be the Queen of Love and Beauty?" Cella asked eagerly. Both Lya and Aryanne chuckled.

"Mayhaps one day, sweet girl." Aryanne said.

Queen Sansa seemed to notice the rather drag of the feast, and she earnestly stepped up and made a speech of how they arrived to celebrate Brandon's six and tenth nameday, his coming of age. The attendants cheered, and the music was played more upbeat with The Bear and the Maiden Fair. Across the table, Arya and Gendry sat by Cass. Gendry and Cass seemed to have an unarmed sparring match going on while still sitting, both hoping that Arya would not notice. Gendry finally caught his daughter's arm between his two and gently pressed them together, constricting hers.

"Mother," Cass complained, "father is going to break my arm."

"He would not dare." Arya said without looking up from her food. Apparently she saw the ordeal of their little spar without them noticing. "He would break his own arm before breaking yours."

When Arya looked to her youngest son, his eyes were fixed on the dancing couples, both gracefully and bawdily dancing to the tune. His food was barely touched, and she did not hear him speak a word since they sat down.

"Well, go on and dance then." Arya said, patting her son's shoulder.

"No, it's not that." He shook his head and subtly pointed towards his brother. Brandon was in the center of the crowd swaying Elaine Oakheart, the eldest daughter of Elinor and Arys. "I've been watching them, and it seems as if Lady Elaine is melted in place. Should I go help her, mother?"

Arya scoffed. "Oh your stupid brother is simply enjoying the company tonight, sweetling." She then smiled and leaned closer her youngest son, her son who preferred books over swords and knowledge over strength.  _He_  was her little Bran, the reminder of her brother on the Wall. "You should go enjoy yourself as well."

After many words of encouragement, Audric slumped off his seat and asked Ayleth Penrose, the youngest daughter of Lord Penrose, to dance. They instead clumsily stumbled and raced across the dance floor, much to the older guests' amusement. Lyanna disappeared from the feast long moments before, and Cassana was dancing with Daeron, the second son of Lord Edric and Lady Aminah Dayne, once Allyrion. Gendry was off long ago teaching little Cella how to dance, although Gendry was by far the worst dance teacher.

Without conscious thought, Arya's footing lead her to her niece who stood alone in front of the head table, watching the dancing couples. The girl,  _woman,_  Arya reminded herself, she  _was only moons older than Brandon, her own coming of age nameday was not too long ago,_ stood with her neck held high and back straight as a spear. She wore a sunset orange gown with thin fabrics that swayed as she turned her head. Her dark Stark hair was kept down, with a Dornish jeweled headpiece atop her forehead. She was fair skinned, and did not look right in such Dornish costumes.

"You look like them, Princess." Arya said to her, a soft nostalgic smile on her lips.

"My lady?" Aryanne turned to look at her aunt, her namesake.

"You look like your parents, I mean. You have your mother's eyes, and her spirit."  _But you have your father's face and his hair._

"Pardon, my lady, but my mother was beautiful."

"And so are you." Arya looked ridiculously at her niece.

"No. Your daughter, Cassana, she is beautiful. And so is her twin Lyanna. She has the Stark look." Aryanne smiled admirably. It would have stricken any other person as odd to hear Aryanne's speech. The crowned prince of the Seven Kingdoms passed her and instead crowned another, and now she was complimenting that very girl's beauty. But Arya lived in King's Landing long enough to gain the ability to tell if people spoke honeyed words only to show their thorns. Aryanne was none of that.

* * *

When the next morning came and first rays of light danced over the ground, Arya awoke early only to greet her sister, who she was not able to properly greet since her arrival. The Targaryens arrived midnight, hours before Brandon's nameday. At the feast, Sansa was constantly flocked by admirers of the Queen, and Aegon often swept her off her feet to each song. Daenerys stayed in King's Landing to rule while Aegon left with Sansa and the children for Brandon's nameday. Sansa was already in her solar mending one of Elaena's gowns. When Arya was allowed inside, Sansa looked up from her needlework and stood from her chair to hug her sister.

"I have missed you, Arya."

"And I have missed you."

They sat down together, making small talk of their lives since they've last seen each other, talking of their children, talking of their lands… Arya did not truly notice how much her sister had changed until then. It was no secret that Sansa was the King's favorite wife. She bore him three dragons, while Daenerys could not manage one. They called her sister Sansa the Sweet, and Daenerys the Dragon Queen. Her children were raised as the heirs to the Throne, and they acted just as such. Sansa was what she was meant to be, what she was raised to be. Sansa truly was The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

"She will make a lovely queen." Sansa said softly.

"Yes, Aryanne would." Arya agreed.

"No, I speak of Lyanna."

"You cannot mean-" Arya bristled at the very thought.

"Aerion has already discussed with Aegon if he can ask for Lyanna's hand." Sansa spoke solemnly, but did not cast her eyes down. She spoke to Arya as the Queen, and not as her sister. When she noticed Arya's despair, her tone softened. "You cannot refuse the King."

Oh, did Arya know those words well. Their mother spoke those very words ever so long ago…

"I promised my children that they will marry for love." Arya said after a long while.

"Lya loves Aerion, and he loves her!" Sansa said, as if it was a miracle, a match made by the Seven.

"As a cousin!" Arya interjected, her temper rising.

"Is marrying a cousin not better than marrying a sister?" Sansa's temper rose just as well. A wolf was dangerous, but now she was a dragon. "Before, Aegon wished for Daena to marry Aerion. This is a far better match."

"She is my  _daughter_! She cannot be Queen."

"And Daena and Aerion are  _both_  my children!" When Sansa realized her rage, she breathed and leaned back in her seat. "Can you imagine the horror, Arya? What if Brandon wanted to marry Cassana? Can you live knowing that your two children are... doing actions in bed together? The two children you bore from your very flesh? I cannot live with that. I simply cannot."

"Sansa, please." Arya would never beg, but Sansa was her sister. Surely she would understand.

"I swear to you, my sister, that I will keep Lyanna safe. She will stay in King's Landing, and never leave my sight." Sansa believed she was making a fortunate vow, but instead it was all Lya dreaded. "I am sorry, but there is nothing we can do. It is already done."

* * *

It was a moon since Brandon's tourney, and the Targaryens were to leave the next morning. Arya arranged for Cassana to travel and stay with Lyanna, and Cass was fairly happy about visiting the capital. But Lyanna left her room with a purpose. She had one last thing to finish before she was to leave Storm's End, her home, her family. When she glanced at her rusted looking glass, all she saw was a shadow. She was dressed in a grey Stark dress and wore her crown of roses, now dead.

"I am leaving tomorrow." She vowed. She found herself in the empty kitchens, with Regis lying on a sack of flour.

"Lyanna, please…" Regis jumped from his lounging position and took her hands in his. "We can leave now. I will go ready the horses. We can get the food from the kitchens, you know how to survive, and so do I we can…"

"He is the crowned prince, Regis." She shook her head. She forbade the tears to escape her eyes.

"Lya…" He began again, but she did not let him go on. If he did, she did not trust herself to do what needed to be done.

"He is going to make me Queen!" She rambled on things she heard other ladies dreamed of. "I will bear his sons, all light haired with purple eyes. We will be married in the Great Sept of Baelor, our vow made in front of the Seven."

"Since when did you any of that? Aerion is your cousin!" Regis asked bitterly, his hands lowering. "Lya, please. We can still leave now.  _I_  can be your family."

"No." Lya dropped his hands from hers and stepped away. The dead flowers on her head were fitting, she thought. It was a funeral, mourning the death of the daughter of Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon, the birth of Lyanna Targaryen.

"Something is wrong. You aren't telling me the truth. Tell me the truth." Regis looked into her eyes but saw nothing. His fury peaked, and he screamed, " _the truth_!"

" _The truth_?" Lyanna echoed. She could end everything now. She could run away with him. She could run away with the boy who was her best friend, the boy she loved, the boy with the black hair and the blue eyes. But she was Lyanna Baratheon, the daughter of the Wolf Queen and the King that Once Was. She was the wolf borne of the stag. She was the girl betrothed to the dragon. No happiness could come from that. "Aerion is offering me everything. You can offer me nothing. You are a kitchen boy. You are a bastard."

Regis shrunk away from her, his blue eyes drowned in betrayal. With that, he left the kitchens, leaving her to truly think of her sorrows. If she knew that was the last she would see of the boy she loved, she would have ran for him, begged for forgiveness even.

But she was expected to be a dragon now, and dragons do not weep.


	18. The Wolf and the Stag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck through to the end! I doubt anyone would be happy or satisfied with this ending, but I tried. I hope you enjoyed this read, it was such a pleasure to write this fic. I will continue my other gendrya fic now; The Taming of the Wolf, if you would like to read that as well. So thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy this last little wrap-up chapter :)

It took Arya two years before she visited King’s Landing once more. Within that time, a betrothal for Brandon was already fixed. Luckily, she managed to forge a promising marriage with already young love. Brandon always had an infatuation with Elaine Oakheart ever since his six and tenth nameday tourney. They exchanged letters, and she even visited once with her family. In that visit, Ser Arys and Lady Elinor spoke to Arya and Gendry of a match, and after an approval from Brandon himself and Elaine’s wishes, the marriage was set with a date. Lady Elaine was to visit in a year for the wedding, as she wished to spend more time with her family before she married the future lord of Storm’s End. With each day that passed, the guilt built on Arya brick by brick. If only she could do the same for Lyanna, she thought.

          Gendry tried to calm her, to soothe her even. He said everything was to be alright; there was nothing they could have done, Sansa would protect Lya and Cass, Aerion would be a good husband and a good king… No matter how sweet his words were, or how much she wanted to believe it, nothing soothed Arya. Even after all those years, Arya, a woman grown, was still as stubborn as the day she left Winterfell, and as willful as the North. When a raven arrived with a royal invitation for the six and tenth nameday feast of Lady Lyanna, the future Princess of the Realm, Arya had to accept. She cringed when she realized there was no mention of Cassana.

          Cassana always wanted to go South. Cassana wanted to go anywhere. She wanted to travel all of Westeros, visit Highgarden, return to Winterfell to see the weirwood tree, look upon the waters of the Riverlands, walk on the stones of the Eeryie, dance on the sands of Dorne… when Arya offered for Cassana to accompany Lya, she literally jumped at the opportunity. With each letter she received from Cass, she wrote of how disappointing the capital truly was, of how kind Queen Sansa and Queen Daenerys were, and that Lya and Aerion were growing closer. Lyanna was always Arya’s wiser and calmer daughter. She had Arya’s look and all of her curiosity and willfulness, but she always made the smarter decision. Cass was Arya’s more stubborn daughter. She took after the Baratheon appearance, and with that, their words. _Ours is the fury._ How she took after those words and made them her own, Arya was almost thankful it was Lya rather than Cass that Aerion chose.

          A moon after the invitation was delivered to Arya and Gendry’s hands, they arrived at the gates of King’s Landing with Brandon in tow. Audric stayed with little Cella, as Gendry swore that there must always be a Baratheon in Storm’s End. The last time Arya was at the gates of King’s Landing with her husband and her son, she solely arrived for her sister’s wedding. She did not ever expect or wish to return.

          “Mother,” Cass ran towards Arya when they arrived in the courtyard. She was almost unrecognizable. Eager to try new things, her hair was braided similarly to Queen Daenerys’, a fashion made popular since her reign. She wore a blue dress that brought out the kohl lined color of her eyes, taken after her father’s. She had the same beauty as mother and Sansa, Arya came to realize, because she is too beautiful to truly resemble me.

          After Cass embraced Arya, she turned to Gendry who lifted his daughter up from her feet and into the air. When she returned to the ground, she was passed to Brandon who ruffled her hair and made a jape of how she could not even swing a sword in a dress like that.

          Soon after, it was Lyanna who entered the courtyard. Unlike Cassana who was like a chameleon clinging to the Southron style, Lyanna held true to her mother’s heritage. Her hair was still braided in a Northern fashion, as she had kept it in Storm’s End, and her dress was still practical, despite the bitter heat of the city. In her arm was Aerion, who already looked like a man grown. He was almost as big as Brandon, but tall and handsome with deep lilac eyes and long silver Targaryen hair. The pair looked odd at first, a woman so much of the North and a man raised by dragons, but they seemed to balance each other. Behind the couple padded Shadow and Visenya, both almost as large as a pony. When Lya saw her parents and her brother, she smiled a sad smile and rushed towards her family.

          _She will make a lovely queen,_ Arya remembered Sansa’s words. But Lyanna was not meant to be a queen. She was meant to be the daughter of Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon, the young she-wolf of Storm’s End. But all that was taken from her the day Aerion set his eyes on her.

* * *

 

          The feast and celebration was nothing short of what was expected. Lyanna requested nothing too ostentatious, but King Aegon insisted that such a celebration was to be made for the future queen’s coming of age. There was music and dancing and a surplus of food. Cassana and Lyanna both sat next to Arya and Gendry telling of their stay in King’s Landing. All Cass said was already known from her letters; King’s Landing was a bitter disappointment than what she expected, it smelled of piss, and even Shadow did not like it. Lyanna said that a Bravoosi swordsmaster visited once and offered her lessons, but then he returned to Braavos. Brandon then interjected that he could still beat her in a sparring match, and she gladly accepted the challenge.

          “What of Prince Aerion?” Brandon asked after taking a sip of wine.

          Arya’s smile faded once reminded of the true reason Lyanna was staying in King’s Landing.

          “Prince Aerion is kind and gentle and brave as a dragon.” Lyanna spoke almost as perfectly as Sansa could have. “He plays the harp, and he even attempted to teach me some songs. Sometimes we spar together, and other times we walk through the gardens.”

          Lyanna spoke of Aerion as if he was not her cousin. Arya realized Lya must have trained herself not to. If she truly was to do her duty and marry the crowned prince, it would have been easier to do her best to forget she was marrying her cousin. In one of Cass’ letters, she mentioned that Aerion truly was kind to Lya, and they grew closer each day. They might have been a good match, under better circumstances.

          The rest of the night moved along nicely. Cass was asked to dance with Daeron, the son of Edric Dayne. Gendry was with Lyanna, and Brandon was talking to some pretty Southron lady. Arya watched them each, her family, and wondered how it all came to this. She never expected to marry the Prince that Once Was, or to marry at all. She never expected to be usurped by the Targaryens, and be made as Lady of Storm’s End. She never expected to birth five children, each who she loved dearly. She never expected her daughter to marry the crowned prince, the son of Sansa and Aegon. Her life was one of many surprises, and she thought the gods must have been laughing overhead while they watched.

          “My lady,” A man cleared his throat and addressed her, distracting her from her thoughts. She looked up to see Edric Dayne smiling down at her. He was not the boy she remembered, the boy who once expected to marry her and who might have fancied her. He was a man with scruff around his cheeks and his lips, his pale blonde hair was cut shorter than she remembered, but he still had the same dark blue eyes that sometimes appeared purple under the sun. He was now married to Lady Aminah, and she birthed him two sons. Arya was once again hit with the reminder that she was no longer the young girl anymore. They were all adults and their children were now the ones they would watch to see if they made the same mistakes the parents once did.

          “I remember telling you not to call me that.” Arya said. She smiled. From what she remembered, Edric was once kind to her. He smiled as well and sat beside her, in the seat Gendry once occupied.

          “It has been too long, but you are still as beautiful as I remember. Just as willful as well.” Edric sighed, leaning back in the chair. She followed his gaze to see Cassana and Daeron laughing while he twirled her around.

          “I remember your son dancing with my daughter at Brandon’s six and tenth nameday as well.” Arya said, recalling the same scene when they were younger.

          “They do make a lovely match.” He agreed. She looked from her daughter and then back to Edric. So that was what he intended; to bind together their houses and do what they were not able to.

          “She is as willful as me, I admit.” Arya said quickly, trying to sway away his idea. “She wishes to venture Westeros, sail across the Narrow Sea and back, look upon the bounty of Highgarden, and play in the snow of Winterfell. I wish for her to do what I was not able to. She wants to visit beautiful places and live freely.” _Or what Lya is now unable to_ , Arya thought bitterly.

          “Dorne is a beautiful place.” He said in a matter of fact tone, “The Red Mountains are quite magnificent, and Starfall has its own beauty.”

          “I am sure she prefers the North to the South.”

          “My son said that he would like to visit the North someday as well. Mayhaps they could travel together.” When Arya did not reply, he leaned closer to her. “I know a good match when I see it. My son fancies your daughter, and your daughter my son. Do you not know of the letters they exchanged during her stay in King’s Landing? Let us organize a betrothal, let my son do what I cannot.”

          Arya stood from her seat so she could look down on Edric. “I only was reunited with my daughter today after two years, and my other daughter is to be married off soon enough. What you say of my daughter’s affections may be true, but I will not broker another marriage for my children so soon. Let her be my child first before she is to be a wife.”

* * *

 

          The next night they were summoned to Aegon and Sansa’s solar. Brandon was already off with Lya and Cass in the practice yard. When Arya arrived with Gendry, she saw the uneasiness in Sansa’s face, and the determination in Daenerys’ jaw. Something was wrong. Prince Aerion sat in the chair beside Daenerys, his face braver than Sansa’s. Aegon bid for Arya and Gendry to sit, and so they did. In Aegon’s hands he held a parchment with the seal of the Night’s Watch. When he handed the letter for Gendry and Arya to read, she noticed the handwriting as Jon’s, now the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and the King’s half-brother.

          “You cannot be serious?” Arya spoke quietly, her throat gone dry. Surely, she read the letter wrong. She glanced at Gendry, and he was just as shocked as she.

          “White Walkers are threatening the Wall, and my half-brother is requesting help.” Aegon said. His face was somber, matching Sansa’s. “Lord Robb Stark has already called his banners. I am to take the dragons with me and Queen Daenerys and my son to the Wall. Fire and dragonglass will kill a White Walker.”

          Arya did not know why the King requested a private audience with she and Gendry. If anything, they could have been told along with everyone else.

          “Your daughter is to marry my son before we leave. Should we fall, my daughter Daena will be regent until Aerion’s son is of age.”

          So that was why the feast was so grand. It was rather a farewell feast. Gendry opened his mouth to object, and Sansa looked to Aegon as well. Apparently, even she did not know of Aegon’s plans.

          “Father,” It was Aerion who spoke first. Each person looked at the young prince, the prince who was expected to be king so soon if tragedy was to fall. “I believe that mother would serve a fine Regent, should tragedy befall.”

          Arya was shocked. Was it not he who requested her daughter’s demise? Arya held no love for her nephew after the betrothal was set, but mayhaps he truly did have some of his grandfather’s honor.

          “My love, I agree with Aerion.” Sansa spoke sweetly, determined to change Aegon’s decision. “I pray to the Old and the New that no harm shall befall you and Aerion, or Queen Daenerys, but should it happen, please do not force this marriage on your son and my niece. Let me serve as regent.”

          “Aegon,” Daenerys was the next to object. Arya noticed she did not address Aegon with such love as Sansa, or even as her king. “I must agree with Sansa. Lady Lyanna is not ready; she is not even a princess as of yet, and is still a girl.”

          Aegon huffed, and without any words from either Arya or Gendry, he begrudgingly agreed. “Very well then.” He then looked to Gendry, and Arya held his arm tighter. “Lord Baratheon, we will depart King’s Landing within a fortnight for the proper supplies to be sent and gathered.”  

* * *

 

          “You cannot let him take you!” Arya said as soon as they returned to their appointed chambers. They supped with their children in silence after they left the King’s solar, and it was nighttime by the time they were left alone once again. When Brandon mentioned that he wished to march with his father to the Wall, Arya almost yelled her refusal. He was her son; he was not meant for war. But she realized she was so wrong; he was a man, the son of the Lord of Storm’s End and the Daughter of Winterfell. Would he really be their son if he did not want to walk into an early death?

          “Arya, I must.” When Gendry turned, his brows were furrowed and his face as somber as when he left her for the Battle of Blackwater. “That is what marriage betrothals are for; alliances. Our daughter is to marry his son, and with their marriage, our house’s allegiance.”

          “My brother has already called his banners.” Arya realized she was in tears. The last time he left her, she thought he died by dragon fire with their son. Now both intended to leave her again. “You have already left me twice for battle, is that not enough?”

          Gendry smiled a sad smile; a smile filled with distant memories and regret and love. He walked to Arya and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Did I not tell you so long ago? I will always return to my lady, as a stag to his wolf.”

          Time passed too fast and before she parted from their last embrace, he was already whisked away with the King’s army. She forgot how war was like dragon’s fire, burning all it touched.

          Sansa’s spare time was often spent with Arya, soothing the leave of Gendry for his third war, and ruling in the small council and court. Lyanna did her best to accompany Arya during her visits to the Godswood, Visenya trailing behind them. Lya would pray for her father’s safe return, and for Aegon’s victory, and uncle Robb and Bran’s health in battle. The smallfolk were attempting to travel further South with the belief that the White Walkers will not stop after they destroy the Wall. Ships to the Free Cities were more filled, and few somewhat wealthy smallfolk managed to already be on their way to Dorne. She did not blame them. After offering the idea to Cass, she accepted, and Arya begrudgingly sent Cass and Shadow to Dorne with Daeron, attempting to get her children to whatever safety there was. She did not trust her youngest children to be so far South and away from her, and although she did believe there must always be a Baratheon in Storm’s End, she could not let them stay so far away while their father was at war, and even King’s Landing was believed to be too close to the White Walkers. She sent for them to be brought to King’s Landing as guests at court visiting their sister.

          Arya did not attend the small council meeting or court, as she did not have a place in either, but Sansa told her what letters they received from the North. Uncle Edmure sent his sons in his stead to defend the Wall, as he was too old. Margaery took Jessamine and Ned with her and travelled to Dorne under the pretense as a tour. However, Catelyn, ever so loyal, remained at Winterfell. She stayed and managed the castle and visited their father when she could, leaving flowers on his likeliness.

          One night, three moons after Gendry left for battle, Sansa stayed with Arya in her solar. Arya just finished making sure Cella and Audric were asleep; Audric liked to hide in the libraries, and Cella liked to follow him. Sansa just returned from court, and each woman was ready to fall asleep. Sometimes they shared a bed like they did as children in Winterfell when Sansa wasn’t being annoying.

          “How far we have gotten, dear sister?” Sansa sighed, and turned in the bed to look at Arya. She had a faraway gaze in her eyes, which she often did when she was reminiscing the past. “I still feel like yesterday we were bickering in the walls of Winterfell, and as if you just threw a crumbling snowball on my dress. And yet here we are, awaiting our husbands’ return from battle. I was married twice, one to a lord I learned to trust but he did not love me, and one to a king who I learned to love.” When Arya did not reply, Sansa continued. “Do you despise me, Arya?”

          “Why would I despise you?”

          “I think I despised you for some time.” Sansa admitted, remembering the days when she still thought as a young girl, so innocent, still a sweet summer child. “You were all I ever wanted to be; you were the queen, married to the king. You were with child, and I believed I would never bear any children. You had love, and I believed I would forever be in a loveless marriage.” She took a breath and turned away, staring at the dark ceiling above their bed. “But then my husband came and overthrew yours. Now my son will be the King, taking away what would have been your son’s legacy. Do you despise me for that?”

          “I often think upon what would have happened if your husband stayed in the Free Cities. Or even if he was the child who died during the sacking of King’s Landing.” Arya spoke softly, and noticed Sansa’s cringe when she mentioned her husband’s assumed death. “I wonder if father would still be with us, or what life Brandon would be leading now. But then I realize that everything is as it should be; you as the Queen, your children expected to rule. It is a cruel way it worked out, but everything happened as it should have happened.”

           Arya did not know how much time passed until a raven arrived, carrying a letter closed by the Night’s Watch seal. Arya summoned her courage to her heart. _I am the daughter of Winterfell, the Queen that Was, the Lady of Storm’s End, the She-wolf of the North, the Mother of Wolves, and the wife of Gendry Baratheon. You are as strong as a wolf, now you must be as stoic as winter._ It was Sansa’s delicate hand that tore open the seal for the two women to read together. The letter was written in Bran’s neat penmanship, but the ink was heavy and she could feel the indentations where the quill was pressed to hard. The White Walkers were repelled, but the Wall was destroyed. Many were lost, and they must go North.

* * *

 

          The caravans were gathered faster than anyone expected, and within a fortnight, ravens were exchanged, and three separate travelling parties departed. Arya sent for Cass to return to Storm’s End, and Cass sent that Daeron was to travel with her for protection during the travels. Arya doubted Cass even needed any protection, but did not fret much on the matter. With half the men who travelled with Arya’s family to King’s Landing, she returned them with Audric and Cella. They were far too young to see the terrors of what must be the North after the perilous war with the Others. Aerion stayed in King’s Landing while Sansa intended to go North. With Brandon and Lya, they joined the Queen’s caravan and Arya rode inside the carriage with her sister, both offering comfort to each other.

          When they arrived in Winterfell, nothing was the same as when she left all those years ago. No snowflakes touched the tip of her nose or dampened the sole of her boot, but instead ashes sprinkled the ground. The air smelled of death, and although the Others were repelled two moons ago, men were still shouting in pain from injuries, and supplies were still being handed out. Some bodies were still awaiting proper burial and a pyre, and were still piled atop each other in the outskirts of winter town. Arya grimaced and looked to her left, where Sansa was also peeking out from their carriage. She expected to see her sweet summer sister shivering and mayhaps even crying for the dead, but instead Sansa watched with a hardened face, as if nothing was in front of her. If anything, the steel in her eyes only made her more beautiful.

          Robb greeted them with a hardened gaze. Arya remembered when they used to play in the snow together, when he would lob a snowball at her arm, and it would crumble off her tunic. She remembered when he and Robb would play together and hide and try to find each other when their father and lady mother would not notice. But the man standing before her was a survivor of two wars, a man hardened by the cold North, the Lord of Winterfell. People always said he looked like their lady mother, but now he was as stoic as their father.

          “Your grace,” Robb swiftly bent the knee to Sansa as they entered the great keep.. She turned to find Ghost padding towards her, the huge direwolf the color of frost and with eyes of fire almost tackling her to the ground. Under different circumstances, Arya would have laughed.

          “Rise, brother.” Sansa said. When Robb stood back up, she greeted him with a smile. Arya was not sure if the smile was for Robb, or for herself to prepare for the news which was to come. Arya stroked Ghost’s fur whilst the greetings, Ghost almost calming her. “I do hope we brought enough supplies to suffice your needs.”

          “No amount could be enough, but it will definitely help the soldiers’ hunger.” Robb nodded, and ushered for Sansa and Arya to walk with him. Lyanna excused herself to help distribute supplies to the men. When they stepped outside again, the cold rush of air flowed through Arya’s hair, the familiar feeling in her veins pulsed. But it was all so different now, burnt by dragon’s fire. Arya did not engage in the conversation her brother and sister were having; they spoke of small things like supplies and how long it would take to rebuild Winterfell and the Wall. Neither wanted to speak of the real reason of their visit, or at least not yet. Arya was done of waiting.

          “Where are my husband and my son?” Arya turned on her heel to look at her brother, her grey eyes piercing. She almost felt sorry for turning on her brother like that, to be so cold after such a battle, after so long, but she wanted no more waiting, she only wanted the truth. Sansa almost reprimanded Arya for acting so rash, but she held her tongue. She too wanted to ask of her loved ones, of her husband, of her own son, of Queen Daenerys. What was to be the fate of the Realm now?              

          Robb’s face turned grim, his lips set in a fine line. “They are fine, Arya.”

          Invisible weights were lifted off her shoulders, and she was allowed to breathe once more after so long. But only now did she notice a thick scar on her brother’s shoulder and that Ghost was clinging so heavily to Arya ever since their arrival. Her eyes widened, her heart dropping once again.

          “Where is Jon?”

* * *

 

          His body was covered by a thin cloth, a meek attempt to obscure his wounds. Arya did not notice she was crying until she felt Sansa’s arms around her, a valiant endeavor to comfort her younger sister. The stab wounds were too much, and too deep. She could see where the blood crusted, and where the person who was supposed to clean Jon failed. She could still see his peaceful expression, as if he was forever in a deep sleep. Robb told her of how he died. He told her of how Robb himself was cornered by the Others, and was already injured by a deep gash on his shoulder to his collarbone. Jon seemingly came out of nowhere and saved Robb from the ambush, forcing him to flee. He was able to get his wounds cleaned and closed, but he found Jon’s body lying cold on the snow, stabbed repeatedly. Robb was beginning to fall to tears as he retold the tale, and he had to stop.

          Next to Jon his half-brother and aunt lied still, both also attempted to be arranged under cloth. The two dragons were laid peacefully on the stone, awaiting to be sent to King’s Landing. Their hair was mingled together, a silver blonde tangle of mess. Their violet eyes were closed forever, and Arya did hope that they were in a better place now, where they were rewarded for all their hardships to return to the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa was the one to cry then, when she saw her husband lying on the stone. Robb offered to tell her of how they died, but she did not want to hear it, or at least not then.

          “Where is my son?” Sansa asked, her voice barely a whisper. She tried to caress her husband’s hand, but she only felt ice. Her second husband was dead, and she was a widow of two. Her first husband was a lord who fancied men more than women and her second was the gallant king she always wished for, to crown her with flowers and gold, but now he was gone as well. It was a cruel fate, one tainted by fire but frozen by ice.

          “He is healthy and well. He fought bravely in battle, and his presence helped the morale of the men. He is helping to hand out supplies now, do you want me to take you to him?”

* * *

 

          Arya managed to find her mother as soon as she exited the crypts. Her lady mother was holding a bundle of winter roses in her hand, the color of frost. No doubt she intended to visit her father and place the roses on his grave. When she saw Arya, Catelyn almost dropped the roses.

          “Come to me, child.” Cat beckoned and opened her arms in a warm welcome. Arya forgot how much she missed her mother’s embrace. “How much you were missed, my sweetling.”

          Arya walked with Cat around the ruined Winterfell, and Cat told her of the hardships of living so close to the Wall during the battle, and how the survivors were taken here to heal. She then spoke of how much she missed father, and he would have known what to do. Arya hugged her mother again.

          “Where are Bran and Rickon?” Arya asked finally. Rickon was knighted not long before the outburst of the Others, but did his duty and travelled to the Wall for the cause. Bran must have joined the Night’s Watch by then, he must have survived.

          Cat took Arya to Bran’s chambers, where she found her little brother sitting on a wooden chair, his legs covered by a blanket. His once long curly hair was cut short, and he was still dressed all in black, like how Jon used to be, Arya remembered. Bran smiled weakly, beckoning for Arya to come close enough for them to embrace. How she missed her younger brother, how much she missed the North. Rickon arrived shortly after, hugging Arya from behind. Rickon was still handsome as the last she saw him, but he too was hardened by war.

          “I cannot climb anymore.” Bran stated dryly. A soft smile tugged at his lips, as if laughing along with the gods’ humor. “I suppose I cannot help the Night’s Watch anymore either.”

          “But you are alive.” Arya reminded him. She sat next to her brother, and they talked until she realized that her mother and youngest brother left long ago. Bran told her of how after the King fell from his dragon, the dragon bowed to Aerion, and he rode him as fiercely as his father, burning every Other that crossed his path. According to bran Aerion was the true tipping point of the war. Arya told Bran of how life was South, of Brandon’s six and tenth nameday, of his betrothal, of Lya’s betrothal to Aerion, and Cassana’s wish to travel around Westeros. She wondered if even after the war, her daughter still held the same dreams. There was a long silence until Bran spoke again.

          “How is she?” He asked quietly. He did not need to elaborate, for Arya already knew of the woman he spoke of.

          “She is beautiful like her mother, and kind like her father, but honorable like her grandfather.” Arya assured him. She spoke of Aryanne sparsely in her tales, unsure of Bran’s willingness, but he wanted more. She told him of how Aryanne was still kind to Lya although many blamed Lya for “stealing” Aerion from the Martell. She spoke of Aryanne’s beauty, of her dark hair like his own and her green eyes like Myrcella.

          “She would be proud of her daughter.” Bran said, looking at the sky. “I only wish I could have been a better father.”

* * *

 

          Lyanna wrapped her cloak around her. She visited the North before, but she was so young. She barely remembered the cold, and especially now, when the North was so changed by the War. He helped her attempts to assure the men they had enough rations for everyone, but she knew it was not true. Aerion was the one that found her, the one that silenced the crowd and wrapped her in an embrace as warm as fire. She gasped and hugged him in return, but forgot she was not welcoming her cousin from war, but rather her betrothed. When they parted, she saw how changed he was. His once beautiful violet eyes were deeper, his cheeks sunken in. His once long platinum hair to match his father’s was sheared similar to her own father’s. The boy she saw off in King’s Landing was gone. He was a man changed by the horrors of war, she even heard whispers that he was the Prince that was Promised. She even heard that her brother pulled a swords from dragon’s fire and all Others fled. But she never did believe those tales.

          “I am so sorry.” He whispered to her. She cocked her head in confusion. Of all greetings to greet her by, he chose his first words so oddly. His eyes only showed regret.

          “What is it?” Lya prompted.

          He looked from the snow, and to her own grey eyes. “He is dead.”

          She shook her head. There was only one man she could guess of, but of all men, she doubted him the most to be in the war. She only managed a soft whisper, “How?”

          “I know you were his friend, and you were so close to him. I tried to protect him, but he fell. Lya, please…”

          Lya did remember her mother mentioning that some men left from Storm’s End to the Wall, but she never expected Regis. He was her best friend, the only one besides her sister and brother that let himself fight with her. He was the first boy she believed she loved, the boy with the coal hair and the blue eyes of water, the natural born son of a natural born soldier. She remembered the day she forced him not to follow her, her last words to him. He wanted to run away, she remembered. How foolish they were, how foolish he was. But she did love that fool, that stupid boy. She finally let herself cry. Aerion embraced her in the snow, and her tears fell onto his shoulder.

* * *

 

          It was nightfall when Arya visited the Godswood. Robb offered to send men with her, but she only scoffed and asked when did she ever need men to escort her to the Godswood. Ghost trailed behind her. She once thought that he would return beyond the Wall, a lone wolf, but it seemed that the albino wolf took to Arya as his new master. She did not mind. She hoped that Jon was with the gods, caring for Nymeria as well. Gendry found her by the heart tree, and Arya almost cried for the second time that day. The gods managed to return him to her three times after a war, and for that, she was forever grateful.

          “I promised you,” he said first, wrapping his arms around her.  “I will always return to m’lady.”

          She thought of the first day she met him, when she hid under the dragon bones in the Red Keep. So much changed since then, dragons flew in the sky once more, the Baratheon Dynasty ended just as soon as it began, but she felt as if they were back to that day, when she was still five and ten when she wanted nothing more than adventure, and he nine and ten, destined to rule the throne.

          She embraced him as well, and kissed him just as feverously as the day she first did. Ghost nuzzled against their feet, and she realized it was just as in her dream once, a long time ago; the wolf and her stag.


End file.
